Hawkeye & Black Widow: Sight Unseen
by Fenix84
Summary: Agent Clint Barton is plagued by doubts about himself and the nature of his job. Assassin Natasha Romanoff is living a lie that cannot last. Though they fight for opposing sides, they are both among the best in their deadly profession. What will they find in each other when they inevitably clash? Story begins five years before Iron Man.
1. A View from Afar

**Hawkeye & Black Widow**

**SIGHT UNSEEN**

**Disclaimer:** No financial gain has been made in the writing or distribution of this story. The author makes no claim of ownership to any of the characters appearing within. The Avengers and all related characters are the property of Marvel Entertainment and the Walt Disney Company.

* * *

**Chapter One**

**A View from Afar**

_March 5, 2004_

Agent Clint Barton peered down from his perch on the upper level of the Berlin Central Station. He was standing on the outermost platform of the East-West tracks. There he had an excellent field of view with which to work with. Beneath him was the vast, crowded shopping level. The North-South tracks were located in the subway even further down below.

Clint leaned against the platform's railing in a casual manner, to give the appearance that he was merely relaxing. He didn't turn his head or body very much, but his eyes were rapidly shifting back and forth.

The station was a sea of information, composed of parts both orderly and chaotic. Thousands of people entered and departed in an unending cycle. Though everyone did their own things at their own pace, general, easily recognizable patterns still emerged. Seeing the big picture had always come naturally to Clint.

But this wasn't another simple observation mission, where he would only be tasked with calling out the movements of crowds and enemy troops. Clint was instead searching for a specific man, by the name of Dr. Albrecht Engel. The photographs that he had been provided with showed Dr. Engel as a frail, sixty year-old man with glasses. He had small eyes and a wide face, on which he kept a bushy brown goatee to compensate for his balding head.

To find Dr. Engel among the thousands of people streaming through the station, Clint would have to focus his mind and make use of his sharp vision. But focusing too much on any one thing at a time could cloud his mind, keeping him from seeing everything else around him. What people didn't see was often what was most important.

"See anything, Barton?" Agent Maria Hill asked. The two of them were connected through tiny communicators hidden inside their ears. She was the lead on this mission, despite being far younger than he was. Clint didn't like her strict, hands-on approach to leadership, but there was no escaping it there. At the moment, they were the only SHIELD agents in the entire station.

They were working shorthanded, looking for a secretive man who had only given them a time and place at which to meet him. Dr. Engel had been too scared to even call them with that information using his own phone. Clint couldn't blame the man for acting like that though, after stumbling onto evidence of his employer's shady dealings with terrorists. Engel had worked for one of the biggest European technology firms. Nobody who operated on that scale would engage in international crime without enough thugs and mercenaries to protect their business with.

Clint continued to search the train station until he finally settled on a man matching Dr. Engel's appearance. "Target in sight," he said. "He looks scared."

"Where is he?" Agent Hill asked.

"Just entered the north side of the mall." Engel was doing everything wrong, turning his head from side-to-side to cast suspicious glances as he walked with a briefcase clutched to his chest. _Great, just what we need_, Clint thought.

It was up to SHIELD to get this man out alive, with all of the evidence that he carried. A team led by Agent Phil Coulson was due to arrive in the subway, riding in on the southbound train that would take Engel down to their safe house in Leipzig. But according to the schedule, they were still several minutes away. If anything were to happen, there would be no immediate back up.

"That's your area," Hill said. "Make contact and provide escort. We need to extract him ASAP."

"Not yet," Clint replied. "I see better from afar." He heard Hill's frustrated sigh through his earpiece, but he chose to ignore it. He stayed put instead, sweeping his eyes over the shopping area in search for threats.

"Fine," Hill said. "I'll go." Her icy tone might have shaken a less hardened agent. Though she was young, Maria Hill was as tough as they came.

She had enlisted in the Marines straight out of high school, spending five years with them before her recruitment by SHIELD. Just four months ago, she had led several SHIELD assault teams on a daring raid against a Ten Rings training camp in Southeast Asia. It was a brutally efficient, military style attack, closely coordinated with strike fighters launched from the Helicarrier itself.

The numbers told the story at the end of that battle: Eighty-three terrorists killed in action, along with a dozen leaders captured. Among the prizes that day was the regional chief of operations, whose presence had been uncovered earlier by Agent Hill's own hard work. The Ten Rings' activities in that area collapsed as quickly as her star rose in SHIELD.

Hill's accomplishments had caught the eyes of the World Security Council, allowing her to climb up the ranks well beyond what her years alone would have allowed. It was for that reason that she was in command of this current operation, even though Clint had more than a decade of experience on her.

"Wait," Clint said as something caught his eye. "Looks like you have a secret admirer."

"Who? Where?"

"Guy in the green jacket. Behind you, thirty feet back." Whoever that man was, he had probably not come alone. Clint kept looking, knowing that he would find even more.

"Damn," Hill said. The tension was apparent in her voice. "Where's the target headed?"

"He's moving south toward the subway. Wait, three guys are moving in on him. No, five. They see him."

"Move, Barton!" Hill ordered.

Though there was no more time for passive observation, Clint was able to keep looking down as he rushed toward the stairs. Two of the hostiles were still quite a distance away. But the other three were perilously close to Dr. Engel, just seconds from catching him in a pincer. The one on Engel's left had a syringe in his hand.

"Hill to Coulson," Maria said. "How much longer till you get here?

"Still three minutes away." Coulson said. "Hold on until we arrive."

"Can't hold on anymore," Hill replied. "Things just got hot."

Clint ran down the stairs two or three steps at a time. He was lucky that they led to the same place where everyone else was converging. Having neared the bottom of the stairs, he leaped and tackled the man with the syringe.

The two of them rolled on the floor and separated. Clint got up in time to see the man lunge forward in an attempt to inject him. He sidestepped his attacker, who immediately jabbed at him again. That second attempt came within a half-inch of his face, stopping only because the attacker's arm was too short to reach any further.

_Lucky you_, Clint thought as he kicked the man in the stomach. The man bent over and exposed his face. Clint gave him a hard left hook that spun him around. He grabbed his dazed opponent and used one hand to guide the man's needle into his own leg. His opponent opened his mouth and gagged, shaking for several seconds before going limp. Whatever was in that syringe, it wasn't nice.

"No!" Dr. Engel cried. "No! Get off of me!"

Turning around, Clint saw Engel being seized by the other two men. The first one held the doctor's arms, while the second one pulled out switchblade. Clint had a Glock with fifteen rounds holstered under his jacket, but he couldn't use it. Not without creating a mass panic and calling a SWAT team down on himself. He ran to grab the knife-wielding thug and pull him away from Dr. Engel.

The man swung at Clint instead. Clint jumped back, seeing the knife graze his chest and slice his shirt open. _Didn't feel a thing_, he thought with a sense of relief, even though he knew that pain didn't always come right away. He didn't have time to check for sure before the man tried to stab him in the side.

Clint smashed his left arm into the man's weapon hand to block the attack. From there his hand flowed toward his opponent's wrist. He twisted it as he hammered the middle of the arm with his right. The man screamed and dropped his knife. A quick back fist strike silenced him.

A fist suddenly pounded against the back of Clint's skull, sending him to the floor. Two strong arms wrapped around him before he could fully get up. Clint drove his elbow backward in an attempt to relieve the pressure. The first strike didn't do it, but the second one did. Free to move again, Clint grabbed opponent's loosened arm and took him down with a vicious judo throw.

"Where are you, Hill?" he asked as he spun around to see his surroundings. Two cops were on their way, but so were three more hostiles. Clint didn't want to stick around for any of them.

"I got my hands full," Hill answered. "Go on without me!"

Clint turned to Dr. Engel, who was crawling on his hands and knees as he frantically searched for something. "What are you doing?"

"My thumb drive! I dropped it!"

Clint looked in the direction that Engel was crawling in. His eyes zeroed in on a small object on the floor, among the crowd that had stopped to watch the brawl. "I got this," he said as he dove toward the spectators. He snatched up the thumb drive as startled civilians stumbled all around him. "Alright," he said as he stuffed the thumb drive into his pocket. "Down the stairs, Doc!"

"Yes, yes," Dr. Engel said as he nervously nodded his head. The two of them made their way down into the crowded subway, which made the shopping level look orderly in comparison. There, people walking through the platforms collided into passengers departing from the newly arrived trains.

_Got to get through_, Clint thought. He hated being in the middle of everything. He couldn't see with clarity there, not without the distance that he needed to think and breathe. It was a struggle just to stay with Dr. Engel, as person after person intruded across his path. One of those people swung a fist, and then another. _Where did he come from?_ Clint thought as he reeled back from the blows.

He placed both hands on his head and raised his elbows as he continued to take more hits. Twisting around in that guarded position, he flowed from defense straight into counterattack. Several elbow strikes set his opponent up as he closed the gap between them. Clint grabbed his enemy and powered forward to send him down onto the track below. The man landed hard on his back and didn't get up.

Clint turned around, thankful to see Dr. Engel. The poor guy was standing there confused, looking like he was about to freak out. "The overpass!" Clint yelled as he pointed to it. "Get to other side! Now!" He looked behind and saw one of the same men from before trying to push his way through the subway. The crowd would slow him down enough. Clint turned back to Dr. Engel and followed him up the overpass.

"Barton to Coulson," he said. "You guys here yet?!"

"The train's coming to a stop," Coulson answered. "Just give us the doctor and we'll be good to go."

"On our way," Clint said. He went down the overpass and toward the next platform, where he saw the train's arrival. A mass of people had already gathered near the edge of the platform, ready to fill the train before anyone had even gotten off. The train doors opened, and the situation became as disorderly as he had predicted.

"Come on," he said as he grabbed Dr. Engel and pulled him along to pick up the pace. They tried to push their way through, but they didn't get any special treatment from the crowd. "Coming through! Move aside!" Someone suddenly grabbed Clint's arm and pulled him back. "Get on the train!" Clint yelled as he struggled with his latest attacker.

"Okay…thank you!" Dr. Engel said.

Clint pushed his opponent off to give himself time to catch his breath. That only gave the man some time to whip out a metal baton. The thug charged at him, swinging wildly.

It was impossible to dodge every blow. Clint instinctively raised an arm to block, for what little good it would do. The steel rod slammed against his arm, which went numb in an instant. "Ah!" he yelled as he fell to the ground. His enemy gave him no chance to recover before clubbing him several times on the back. Clint twisted on the floor in pain, but he managed to trip the other man with his legs.

His opponent climbed right back on top of him. Clint had been trained in ground fighting. He knew of a half dozen ways to get out of this position…if only the man wasn't so damned big. All Clint could do was put his hands up, trying his best to survive as the blows kept raining down.

"Excuse me," he heard someone say in a loud but remarkably calm voice. Both Clint and his attacker stopped and turned to the side, where they saw Agent Coulson standing in front of an entire team of policemen. "But assaulting someone in front of the cops is _clearly_ against the law." The cops pulled Clint's attacker off, manhandling him as they pinned him down and slapped on a pair of cuffs.

Clint pushed himself up, squinting in pain as he hunched over a trash receptacle. There he groaned and gasped for most of the next minute. He had seen a lot of combat over his career, but it had been almost twenty years since he had been on the bottom like that during a street fight. Clint sensed someone very close by, watching him as he tried to recuperate. When he thought that he had finally gotten over the pain, he turned to see who it was.

She was a stunningly beautiful woman, standing not three feet away from him. Everything on her was black, from her beret, to her well-fitted skirt suit, to the leather bag in her hands. Clint didn't know how much her outfit had cost. He just knew that it was very stylish. The clothes flattered her, but the contrast of her fiery red hair stood out even more.

Hers was a striking, sophisticated beauty. Though she was young, she looked appealingly smart and mature. Sort of like how Agent Hill would look, if she wasn't such a hardass. A gorgeous woman was right there in front of his eyes, but Clint knew that he looked like a loser.

He turned to his handcuffed enemy and did what he could to rectify his image. "Not so tough without your stick!" he barked. He turned back to the woman and nodded in acknowledgement of her. She just rolled her eyes and walked away.

Only after that did Coulson come to stand at his side. Phil whistled sharply as they watched the girl board the train.

"You noticed too, huh?" Clint said in response.

"Saw every second," Coulson said, still sounding calm and upbeat. "Oh well, can't win 'em all." The two of them stood quietly as the train closed its doors and departed.

"Why'd you get off the train?" Clint asked.

"I'm your handler. I need to make sure you're properly handled."

Clint just nodded, too tired to say much more. He slid his hands into his pockets, where he felt Dr. Engel's thumb drive. "Aw crap," he said as he pulled it out.

"That's fine," Coulson said. He casually took the thumb drive and slipped it down one of his own pockets. "You did well, Barton. The police can take care of these guys for now. Let's just get you and Agent Hill back to the apartment."

* * *

Natasha Romanoff adjusted the strap on her purse as she entered the front of the quiet car. The target was sitting on the other side of the car, surrounded by four agents. She could tell what they were, even though they were all in plain clothes. One of them was clearly watching her, even while he pretended to read a magazine.

_Amateur_, she thought as she walked past several passengers to take a seat in the middle of the car. The agent was young and green. With the likes of him providing lookout, her cover remained safely intact.

Most of the other passengers whom she had passed were tired and elderly people, already asleep not five minutes after boarding the train. There was a man watching a movie on his laptop, and a teenage girl with an iPod. Both had headphones on and seemed completely unaware of their surroundings. No one from that side of the car was going to lay a hand on her from the back.

She sat in her seat for several minutes, letting things settle down to avoid suspicion. Waiting was something that she had to do, but didn't want to. She was anxious to just get things done already.

The performance enhancers that she had taken two days before were still in effect. The drugs honed her body, but far more important was the mental edge that they gave her. They greatly increased her capacity for information, allowing her handlers to quickly teach her everything about her missions and her targets.

Their wealth of information helped to focus her mind, instilling her with a sense of purpose. She knew Dr. Albrecht Engel. She hated him. His face was in her mind, during her dreams as well as all waking hours. She would not stop thinking about him until he was dead.

There was no getting closer to someone than she had to him. She knew his every record, his every trait. His every deed. Every immoral, two-faced act of his had been brought forth and held up before her eyes. She saw him up close, inside and out, and it sickened her.

He was a man who had profited from entire decades of war. A coward who had betrayed his employer to Western agencies in order to save his own skin. He would probably go on to work for them, developing weapons to promote their decadent, imperialist agendas.

Now, Natasha was as physically close to Dr. Engel as she had felt in her mind for days. He was every bit as disgusting to her in person. But he was also very vulnerable. Natasha reached into her purse, digging through her cosmetics and accessories for the deadly content that they concealed. She slowly pulled her hand out, removing a pocket-sized pistol from the bag. There was no reaction from the agents in the back. _They don't suspect a thing_, Natasha thought. It was all too easy for her.

_**To be continued in Chapter 2: See No Evil**_


	2. See No Evil

**Chapter Two**

**See No Evil**

_March 6, 2004_

Clint sighed as he slowly turned his head to the left. He could only look out his window for so long.

He saw Agent Hill across the narrow cabin of their aircraft, sitting in another window seat. Her hands were folded, and she had a forlorn look in her eyes as she kept staring at the floor between her legs. Maria looked just like she had an hour ago, when Clint had last laid eyes on her. He almost wanted to go over there and console her. Almost.

Except for the pilot himself, no one on the plane had spoken since takeoff. None of the agents there wanted to argue or cast blame for the failure in Germany. There would be plenty of time for that later on, aboard the Helicarrier.

The C-2A Greyhound that they were flying on was not a large plane, but it had more than enough seats for the entire team. All surviving members of the team, that was. There were four more empty seats on the way back than there were on the flight that had first went out. The agents had all spread throughout the cabin, with some taking entire rows for themselves. Clint understood why. For people like them, pain was easier to bear alone.

_Damn plane_, he thought. The C-2 was a turboprop design that had been built decades ago. SHIELD was only using the old birds because they were available; the Helicarrier's air wing had been an afterthought to the ship itself. With a cruising speed below three-hundred miles per hour, trips to and from the Helicarrier were often quite long.

Clint couldn't wait for the procurement of those new Quinjets that everyone was talking about, which would fly several times faster. At least then, trips like the one that he was on would go by more quickly. They would still be painful, but they wouldn't be so long.

* * *

"A man _died_ yesterday," Director Nick Fury said as he entered the conference room. Fury took his seat at the table, where he took a moment to observe everyone else. "A man who was under _our_ protection. Not to mention four of our agents. Now does anyone wanna explain this one to me?" None of the ten people there, not Clint, Hill, nor Coulson, wanted to be the first to speak up. "Coulson. Give me something."

"Uh huh..." Phil said, before he looked down and quickly opened his laptop. Even he seemed shaken by what had happened. Coulson typed several commands, which activated the holographic projector mounted in the middle of the conference table. Security videos from different parts of the train station appeared on several split screens.

"These videos came in just after we returned," Coulson said as he continued typing. "Our source inside the Berlin police sent them here." The videos sped up, quickly progressing through time until just a few minutes before the shooting had happened.

"A witness on the train described the shooter as young red-haired woman wearing a beret," Coulson said. "This might be her." Coulson stopped the video and zoomed in on someone walking among the crowds. She had been smart enough to look away from the security camera as she passed by, to keep her face from being recorded. However, her clothes and her hair were unmistakable.

Clint's eyes widened as he realized what had happened. "No way."

"You have something to say, Agent Barton?" Fury asked.

"She just..." Clint paused as he came to terms with what he was seeing. "She just looks like this pretty girl I stood next to yesterday."

"I'm afraid so," Coulson said. He nodded as he looked Clint in the eyes and frowned.

"Had no idea," Clint said.

"Wait," Agent Hill said as she raised her voice. "You're telling me that you let her through to kill five people because she was _pretty_? Great observation, _Hawkeye_."

Clint tightened his fist underneath the table. He was livid. It amazed him that he had even thought of her as human during their flight back. "I don't see everything, okay?"

"No," Hill said. "You just fail to see what's inside, that's all."

"I can see inside you pretty well right now," Clint replied. _Blaming me to cover your ass_, he thought. He was doing everything he could not to raise his own voice and start shouting.

"Why you-"

"That's enough, Agent Hill," Director Fury said.

Hill opened her mouth as if to say something, before quickly closing it again. "Yes sir," she said with an affirmative nod.

"To be fair to Agent Barton," Coulson said, "she got past me as well." Coulson sounded like his usual calm self again. He had always been good at defusing situations. "Barton did save one of Dr. Engel's thumb drives. Our analysts are going through it right now. Looks like we still might have enough to shut down KonTech Systems."

"Good," Fury said as he took a brief look at Clint. "The Middle East could use few less guns."

"Some forensics came back on our assassin as well," Coulson said. "Her bullets were 0.38 caliber, likely fired from a Walther PPK."

"Nice gun for the job," Clint said. "It's small. Concealable."

"Mm hmm," Coulson said. "The bullets were hollow points as well, for greater tissue damage. She gave Engel two in the chest, and one in the head."

Fury looked down and sighed. "How did our agents die?"

"She shot Agent Davis twice, in the head and neck," Coulson said before pausing. He seemed uncomfortable with the grim details.

"Go on," Fury said.

"Agent Reyes took two shots in the chest," Coulson said. "Looks like he stood up, though he didn't get far out of his seat. She probably ran out of bullets after shooting him. Blair had a broken neck, while Turner showed apparent blunt force trauma to the head. After that, she forced open the train doors and vanished."

"She took them out with her bare hands," Clint said. "We're dealing with a real pro."

Another agent suddenly entered the conference room. "Sir, there's been an incident at Culver University. It's the gamma radiation lab."

"_What_ did you say?" Fury asked. His mouth hung open after that question. The agent walked to his side and whispered into his ear. Clint saw the director's eyes widen as he listened. "Just great," Fury said as he got up in a huff.

"What is it, sir?" Clint asked.

"This world of ours just got even stranger," Fury said. "I've got new priorities right now." He turned and pointed at Coulson. "Take care of this, Agent Coulson."

"Will do, Boss," Coulson said.

Clint knew that they had just been shafted. It would be up to Coulson, Hill, and himself to figure things out themselves. He didn't like the way that his day was turning out, at all.

* * *

Clint opened the door to his private quarters and went straight for his bed, where he collapsed. The mattress wasn't very good, but it was softer than anything he had been on over the last two days. That hours-long meeting with Coulson and Hill had just about kicked his ass. It had been no way to recover from his ass kicking in the subway just a day before.

Staring up at the ceiling, he waited for sleep to come. It didn't though. _I've been working too hard_, he thought. _Schedule's all screwed up_. He had just come up with that as an excuse. He knew the real reason why he couldn't sleep.

_He's dead_, Clint thought as he remembered the man whom he had injected with the poison syringe. The toxicology results would take a while to come in, for all that they mattered. The result would still be the same regardless of what Clint had put in him.

Of course, that man wouldn't be the last. Clint's entire day had been spent talking about that beautiful redhead, who stood a very good chance of becoming a target for future elimination.

_How many will that be, Clint?_ There was a time when he could remember every face and name. That had been many years ago. He began to lose track after moving from targeted killings into full-fledged combat missions. Killing was something that he was very good at. The more he killed, the more SHIELD wanted him to continue. As they had said, it was in everyone's interest for him to play to his strengths.

Names went through his head, but so did the bodies of the many people he had taken out after no more than a moment's glance. Clint didn't know which kills were worse. Was it more wrong to kill an actual person with a life story? Or was it a bigger sin to pull the trigger on someone whom he couldn't even bother to know anything about? No, the worst one was his first. The one that had sent him into SHIELD's hands, leading to all of the rest.

Clint needed something else to get his mind off the subject. He sat up and looked into the small mirror standing alone on top of his drawer. He remembered hearing somewhere that mirrors showed the truth of people. How they were supposedly a window into the soul or something.

_Don't be silly_, he told himself. All he saw was one person sitting on a bed, in a bare room with sterile gray walls. The room was exactly as it was when SHIELD had assigned it to him more than a year ago. He had brought nothing of his own to change it.

* * *

_July 4, 2004_

"Still have Coke?" the bartender asked. The man spoke with a thick Turkish accent, but his friendliness still shined through.

_At least he knows how to smile_, Natasha thought as she looked up from her laptop. She had wondered whether she would take any flak for not ordering a real drink. Unlike the French lady who had served her during her last mission, this bartender knew how to treat his customers. Or perhaps he was acting like that because of her looks. Men were so predictable.

"Yup," she replied, before raising her glass for him to see. "Still working on it." She playfully rattled the ice cubes inside, making sure to look him in the eye and smile as she did so. She had to stay in character no matter whom she dealt. The act would not work unless she fully committed herself to it.

"Good, good," the bartender said, before moving on to another customer.

Natasha took a sip and looked out the window. The Turkish capital of Ankara fascinated her. It wasn't the most glamorous city that she had ever been to, but it still stood out for its striking contradictions. It was a city of embassies, fine dining, and luxurious hotels, as well as Roman ruins and centuries-old mosques. The new Kocatepe Mosque had been particularly impressive to her, with its massive domed roof and towering spires. In that city, the past and the present existed as one.

Ankara was located in the heart of Turkey, which itself was a nation caught between two continents. Turkey was the gateway to the East. It was influential in the surrounding region, and was therefore a place where Western governments tried to build their own influence.

Half a mile away stood the American Embassy. Though embassies officially existed for diplomatic purposes, the open secret was that they were hot spots for intrigue and espionage. That was only natural for protected outposts conveniently located in faraway lands. The embassies' staff shared their space with spies. Host countries, even friendly ones, tolerated them with a wary eye. Interested third parties saw them as targets to be exploited. Russia's Department X, for which Natasha worked, was one such interested party.

The US Embassy actually wasn't a bad place to work at all, even as a temporary, lowly paid assistant named Nancy Ryan. Getting in had required Natasha to provide extensively forged documents and phony references, which all explained her life story as the daughter of American expatriates. Good thing that those had all been carefully prepared years ago.

Natasha was thankful that they had worked, because this mission was so different from everything that she had done recently. She had been free to plan and execute it according to her own judgment. The feeling of independence was scary, but exhilarating. She wanted so badly to prove herself to Uncle Ivan and Dr. Sergeyev. For once, they had not drilled their own plans into her mind in advance. If it had been possible, they would have.

The only reason that they hadn't was because of the gradual, open-ended nature of the mission. It wasn't a simple hit; Natasha needed to work inside the Embassy for entire weeks, observing people before any action could be taken. No single dosage of their performance enhancers could come close to lasting that long.

Those drugs were a big help to her, but she didn't like them. Not when they wore off each time, leaving her exhausted but able to think clearly again without the single-minded determination that they enforced. She didn't like the feeling that she was being watched and ordered forward every step of the way. She didn't like the feelings of weakness and doubt that crept into her whenever she was finally alone.

Natasha's eyes drifted back to her laptop again. She had opened several internet browser windows while waiting for her target to arrive. Something compelled her to search for information.

On the first window was a bio for Dr. Albrecht Engel. Natasha remembered all that she had been told about him. She knew how dirty his hands had been, and how he had deserved to die. Uncle Ivan had said so, and she trusted him on that. She trusted that Engel's death would serve the greater good of Mother Russia. What bothered Natasha was that she could no longer hate the man as much as she once had, before putting a bullet in his head.

The rest of the windows were devoted to other jobs that she had done. There was one about Aliya Drakov, whom Natasha had strangled last year inside a Georgian hotel room. Aliya's death had driven her equally traitorous father out of hiding, leading to his demise as well. Natasha remembered the praise that had been heaped upon her for that accomplishment. She didn't quite remember the details of what Aliya had been charged with.

_Get a grip_, Natasha thought as she tried to suppress her feelings of doubt. _Stop being a child_. She was on a great assignment, free to exercise the talents that she had so painstakingly developed. She loved undercover work, which allowed her to become somebody else and escape her own confined life for just a little while.

This time, she also had a chance to show Uncle Ivan that she was no longer the frightened toddler whom he had rescued from that apartment fire all those years ago. She wanted him to know that she was in fact a grown woman, fully capable of deciding things on her own. And yet she was risking all of that because of her vague, stupid feelings.

Natasha closed her laptop. She had just heard the click when her target arrived and plopped himself down on the right side of the bar, several seats away.

The target's name was Jack Palmer. He had been born in Des Moines, Iowa to a middle class family on May 27, 1966. Palmer was an All-State basketball player in high school, but he also earned his way into Harvard on an academic scholarship. The man earned degrees in political science, international development, and Middle Eastern studies.

Palmer had turned away well-paying job offers in the private sector to work for the CIA instead. He had married and he had divorced, twice. Assigned to Ankara seven months ago, he was officially serving as the US Embassy's cultural attaché. In truth, he was there to coordinate with American agents, guiding their infiltration into the Middle East and the former Soviet Republics.

The bartender's face lit up. "Jack! My number one customer!" He laughed as he made his way over to Palmer's side of the bar.

"You know what I like, Omer," Palmer said. His head was tilted and resting on his left hand. He had not bothered to look up before ordering.

"Of course," Omer replied. He giggled as he poured a shot of vodka.

Palmer downed the shot not two seconds after it had been laid in front of him. He squinted and contorted his face as the alcohol burned its way down his chest.

"Another?" Omer asked as he lifted his open bottle again.

"Later," Palmer said. He looked off to the left and shifted in his seat as he waved the bartender off.

Natasha was completely ready from him. She had been watching him out of the corner of her eye, while facing her laptop monitor. As Palmer turned in her direction, she had gently looked his way so that their eyes would meet. Counting every moment in the Embassy, this was the seventh time that they made eye contact. It would be the first time that she would smile at him.

"Hey," Palmer said as he came over to take the seat next to her. "Never saw you here before." He seemed happier already.

"Well," Natasha said. She leaned a bit closer to him before finishing her sentence. "There's a first time for everything."

"It's work, right?" Palmer asked with a smile on his face. "They drove you to drink."

"I don't know about that," Natasha said as she picked up her glass of Coke.

Palmer pressed on. "I mean, how many hours did you put in today?"

"Just four," Natasha said in a teasing manner.

"Yeah? Well I did fourteen. They had me waking up at Five AM to handle some 'urgent business' bullcrap." Palmer looked down and sighed. "You know, we may be Turkey, but the Embassy's supposed to be American territory. Least they could've done was give us the Fourth of July off."

"Jerks," Natasha said. She smiled before taking a sip.

"Yeah," Palmer replied. "We work for a bunch of assholes."

Natasha felt his leg brush against hers. "Please tell me you've got some rum mixed into that," he said as he pointed at her glass. His abrupt change in subject was very telling. He was doing all of the work for her.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Natasha said, feigning embarrassment. "I thought about celebrating today with a drink, but I kind of chickened out. This would've been my first time."

"Oh wow, you've gotta be kidding me," Palmer said. "You must be old enough to drink. How old are you?"

"Twenty-three," Natasha said.

"Well like you said, there's a first time for everything." He briefly looked off to the side as a salacious grin appeared on his face. "I like vodka. Think you can handle vodka?"

Natasha held back the urge to laugh.

* * *

"Okay, what do you have in here," Natasha said as she opened Palmer's laptop. She was sitting on the bed in his hotel room. The disgruntled CIA agent was lying there next to her, breathing heavily with his eyes closed.

Getting to this point had been easier than Natasha had anticipated. Jack wasn't a bad-looking man; she wouldn't have minded spending the night with him if that was what the mission required. But the two of them didn't get that far. Natasha had plied him with liquor from the room's mini-bar. She never would have guessed that he'd drink so readily, all while mourning his failed second marriage.

Getting him drunk had been her goal though. This mission was different than usual. She was supposed to incapacitate Palmer, allowing her to go through his computer in peace. After copying the necessary files, she would then be able to slip away into the night without any suspicion. The best spy work left the victims without the slightest idea that they had been spied on.

Natasha typed away, trying passwords that she had dug up from Palmer's various online accounts. One of them worked. His security was terrible, but typical.

The computer's desktop was a jumbled mass of icons. The documents were a mess too, with seemingly endless levels of nested subfolders. It wouldn't have been half as bad though, if the folders and files had names that were more descriptive. Natasha took her time, going through each one.

"Don't leave me," Palmer slurred from under the covers of the bed. "My wife left me."

"Shh." Natasha reached for the half-empty bottle lying next to her. It was all that she had left. She opened it and stuck the small bottle into Palmer's mouth, feeding him like a baby. He drank for several seconds, before passing out again. The last of the liquor splashed against his cheek before flowing into his pillow.

Natasha went back to work. She found a listing of foreign agents and wanted criminals. It wasn't exactly what she was looking for. Still, she felt as if she were getting close. She continued on to the other folders in the group.

In an inconspicuously labeled subfolder, she found a roster of American agents and analysts working in the region. But these were their real names, and not all of them were working undercover. What she did notice was that every person that the CIA tracked, friend or foe, had been given a unique but similarly formatted serial number. Finding the undercover agents was a matter of matching the agency roster to its list of enemies.

_This is it_, Natasha thought as she smiled. She plugged her thumb drive into the laptop and briefly clenched her hands before returning them to the keyboard. For the first time in recent memory, she was actually giddy and excited about her work in a good way.

The telephone suddenly rang. Natasha turned and watched it ring, hoping that it was just a wrong message. No such luck.

"Jack, you there?" someone said as he left a message. "It's Frank. We need to talk right now. Come on Jack, I know you're there."

_Damn it_, Natasha thought. Her heartbeat picked up as she quickly moved to copy both databases into her thumb drive. The files were huge. Transferring all of their data would take several minutes, at least.

"You're killing me, Jack, you know that?" Frank said. "I'm coming up. See ya soon."

"Hurry up," Natasha whispered as she watched the copying process. She hated how slow it was. She hated the computer's useless animated display. It showed fictional papers endlessly transferring between folders, while actual numbers on its progress only appeared intermittently. The minutes passed by. All Natasha could do was watch.

"96 percent complete," the computer displayed.

_Almost there_, Natasha thought. She started to feel better. In another minute, she would be able to pack up and leave. Frank would never see her there...

He suddenly knocked the door. "Hey, open up."

Natasha jumped to her feet. Her eyes were fixed on the laptop even as she moved to grab her things. _Forty-five seconds. Damn._ Natasha picked up her purse and her jacket before running into the closet.

"You got the spare key, Conner?" Frank asked.

"Right here, Boss."

Natasha put down the laptop and opened her purse. She quickly dug through its contents, dropping each item on the floor as she made her way to the bottom. There she found her trusty PPK, as well as a suppressor. With any luck, she wouldn't have to use it. But she knew that her luck that night had changed for the worse.

The door swung open and slammed against the wall. Natasha heard the two agents enter in a hurry, as if they were clearing the room. They knew that something was wrong.

Natasha quickly screwed the suppressor onto the barrel of her pistol. This wasn't the movies. Her suppressor wouldn't completely silence the gun, but it would muffle it and alter the sound of her shots. Enough so that people in the adjacent rooms wouldn't immediately know that a weapon had been fired. Natasha still held out the faintest hope that it would not come to that.

"What the hell," Frank said. Natasha heard him walking over to the bed. She could faintly make out his feet through the slits of the closet door, which was composed of downward-slanting wooden strips.

"God, I can smell the booze on him," Conner said. "He have a girl in here?"

"Yeah," Frank said as he picked something up from the floor.

Natasha almost gasped as she looked down at her bare feet. She knew that she had forgotten something in her haste.

"Huh," Conner said. "Someone's losing his clearance."

"Go check the closet," Frank said.

Conner moved to do as he was told. His footsteps were those of a large man. Natasha gripped her pistol tightly as she prepared herself for what would come next.

The door swung open in front of her. The first thing that Natasha saw wasn't Conner, but the gun that he pointed at her. Her left arm swung out on instinct, knocking it aside. Natasha didn't shoot him right away. She kicked him away instead, before leaping out of the closet.

Good thing that she had. Frank had his gun drawn as well, and was turning to engage her. If she had shot Conner right away, he might have fallen forward and trapped her inside the closet.

Natasha fired before she had even stopped rolling. Despite the suppressor, each shot seemed loud and clear in her ears. Frank dropped his weapon as he shook from the gunshots, before falling to the floor. Natasha swung around and gave three more to Conner as well.

For some reason, she didn't put down the gun after he had fallen. Natasha watched as some of Conner's blood trickled down the wall. She noticed that she was gasping. "Bozhe moi," she said in Russian. _My God._

She shook her head in an attempt to clear it. _Such a baby_, she thought to herself. What was wrong with her that night? Was she so weak that she couldn't go through with a kill without Uncle Ivan and his treatments to steel her will? Natasha put on her heels and went to the closet, where she slowly gathered her things. She tried, but she couldn't stop thinking about those gunshots.

"Download complete," Palmer's laptop displayed. Natasha unplugged her thumb drive from it. Just a few minutes ago, she would've been so happy to finish the job. Now though, there was no point in even leaving the laptop there. Not after all that had just happened.

Natasha checked her gun. She had one more round in it. Jack Palmer was still lying there, unconscious. He had not seen what she had done. A gunshot to the head might keep him from calling for help though, after waking up from his drunken slumber. It stood a chance of buying her some more time.

Or it might not. For all she knew, Frank and Conner could have been working on someone else's deadline. That was what she decided to go with.

No matter what, there was no way that Nancy Ryan would ever work in the Embassy again. She packed up her gun and left, allowing Palmer to have a night of peaceful sleep before he would have to wake up and face reality.

_**To be continued in Chapter 3: The Dollhouse**_


	3. The Dollhouse

**Chapter Three**

**The Dollhouse**

_July 5, 2004_

Natasha sped her motorcycle through the dimly lit roads of Plzen's industrial district. She was in the old part of that Czech city, surrounded by evergreen trees and factories with towering smokestacks.

The area had had its share of troubles over the years. During the Cold War, it had been a major producer of goods for the nations of the Eastern Bloc. However, things changed after the collapse of Communism. Plzen's factories lost many of their customers, and were unable to compete with Western businesses. Some of the factories were forced to close. Even though conditions in the East had improved since then, Natasha still regretted the downfall.

That night though, her thoughts were turned inward. The outcome of her most recent mission still weighed heavily on her. But most of all, she was tired. The night was especially dark, with low clouds obscuring both the moon and the stars. That made it even harder for her to ride. It was late, and she wanted to get home and sleep in her own bed for a change.

She arrived at the gate outside of her walled off destination. There, she removed her helmet and made sure to look directly into the security camera that was pointing down at her. Natasha then reached to type in her access code on the keypad mounted on the post to her right.

The gate opened before her. She was finally home. The place had been an arms factory before it had been forced out of business during the turmoil of the early nineties. Department X secretly purchased the building some years after that. It was the perfect place for Uncle Ivan to relocate the Department's "Red Room" academy. There, they were closer to the playing fields of Western Europe. They could take advantage of the European Union's lax border controls, which made it far easier to move between countries.

A pair of armed guards greeted her before allowing her through. Natasha drove up to the building and parked outside the main entrance. She was exhausted, but she knew that the night was not over yet even as she opened the door. Inside, she saw a dozen men standing there waiting for her. Uncle Ivan and Dr. Sergeyev stood at the head of the crowd.

"You told me you could do this," Uncle Ivan said. His voice came out low. She could feel the disappointment coming off of it. "You told me you were ready. I believed you."

"I'm sorry," Natasha replied. "I didn't know it would turn out like that." On her way back, she had thought about the agents whom she had killed. About having to admit to everyone that she wasn't ready to do everything on her own. She suddenly felt ashamed for being so self-centered, without even considering the feelings of the only father that she had ever known.

"You're sorry?" Ivan said. His voice had suddenly changed. It had taken on an edge, as if something was boiling out from him. "You're sorry?!" he screamed. "I defended you! I told everyone I trained you myself!" His tall muscular body was animated with rage. "Damn it! You embarrassed me!"

Natasha's mouth dropped open. She tried to say something, but she was too stunned to respond. Nothing had even prepared her for this outburst. She felt something heavy form in her chest.

"I worked hard to get you in there! I had to call in favors, you understand? And you throw it away! Just like that!"

"I, I got the laptop," Natasha said as she handed over Palmer's computer. Uncle Ivan stared her down as he snatched it out of her hands.

"Yes, but the Americans know that you took it," Dr. Sergeyev said. Ivan looked at him, as his anger appeared to build even more. Sergeyev's input had definitely irked him. "That information has lost more than half its value."

Ivan turned back to Natasha and continued. "You stupid girl! You're so stupid!"

He was humiliating her in front of everyone. Natasha felt moisture around her eyes, but she held it back. "I'm so sorry," she said. She noticed that she was shaking, and that her voice had not come out with the usual strength that she had always made an effort to display. Natasha suddenly dropped her head and looked away. She had not cried in years. If she were to start, she didn't want to be seen doing it.

"It's okay," Uncle Ivan said. His voice was suddenly soft again. He must have sensed that she was near her breaking point. Ivan walked up to her and wrapped his strong, bearlike arms around her body. "It's okay," he said again as he gently rocked her back and forth. He lowered his head toward hers. Natasha felt his bushy mustache as he kissed her on the forehead. "Don't you worry, my little Tsarina. Just listen to Uncle Ivan from now on."

* * *

_July 8, 2004_

"What's going on?" Clint asked as he saw several elite SHIELD agents rushing by.

"There's been a leak at the CIA," Agent Jimmy Woo said. "Director Fury's pissed."

Clint followed him and the others into the Helicarrier's main briefing room. Dozens of people were there. All of them sat waiting as Fury and Coulson prepared to speak. Clint noticed Agent Hill at the front of the room, glaring at him. She motioned for him to take the seat next to her.

"Hey," Clint whispered as he sat down.

Hill shook her head. "You really screwed up."

Clint didn't know what he had done recently that could have even gone wrong. He was about to respond when Fury started talking.

"As some of you may have heard," Fury said, "there's been a major security breach at the CIA." He paused to look around the room. "Last Sunday, two CIA agents were killed inside a hotel room in Ankara, Turkey. Another agent named Jack Palmer was found in that room, drunk. His classified laptop was stolen. That laptop happened to contain a list of undercover agents in Eastern Europe and the Middle East." Fury stopped and turned to Coulson.

Coulson cleared his throat before taking over. "There were no eyewitnesses to the murders. However, Palmer spent that night with a pretty redhead who worked with him at the nearby US Embassy. She disappeared on him. No one's seen her since." Coulson pointed a remote control to activate the big-screen monitor mounted on the wall. The woman's face appeared. "Recognize her, Agent Barton?"

_Oh no_, Clint thought, as he sensed everyone's attention turning to him. "Unfortunately," he answered.

"The CIA was pretty angry with us for not sharing her description with them," Coulson said.

"The CIA ought to know that trust goes both ways," Fury said as he raised his voice. "Go on, Agent Coulson."

"This leak basically screwed up every ongoing operation east of Germany," Coulson said. "The silver lining was that it was quickly discovered. Most of agents were safely withdrawn. But five of them weren't so lucky. Four deep cover CIA agents, and one SHIELD agent, were killed yesterday."

"That's right," Fury said. "The CIA was secretly keeping tabs on _us_ as well. Show them the video."

"Sir..." Coulson said. "Is it really necessary?"

"Show them video."

"Okay." Coulson looked down and took a breath, before pressing another button on his remote. The monitor switched to a video of several masked terrorists dragging a bloody man across the floor.

"That's Agent Ramzi al-Shayah," Fury said. "One of us."

Clint watched as one of the masked men pointed a gun at Ramzi's head. The shot came before he could look away. The execution was all over in a moment, but the feeling of sickness that it brought about lingered on. "Why's this girl working for terrorists?" Clint asked. He wanted to talk about anything else that could get the disturbing scene out of his head.

"She's not," Coulson said. "Well at least not directly." He stopped the video and went through a menu of other files. "The thumb drive you got from Dr. Engel put us on the trail of several terrorists. As you know, we've been following their communications for a while now. Turns out several of them have been talking to this guy." A closeup of a middle-aged man with graying black hair and a mustache came up on the screen.

"That's Bezukhov," Hill said.

Clint looked at the young agent, surprised that she was aware of the name. Clearly, she was being included in meetings that he wasn't privy to.

"Right," Coulson said. "Ivan Petrovitch Bezukhov was an officer in the Red Army before moving on to Russian intelligence. He's been behind many of their most successful operations over the last two decades. There's been a lack of hard intel on him in recent years, but it's believed that he's currently based somewhere outside of Russia."

"Our friend Ivan does things his own way," Fury said. "He's been taking freelance jobs with various criminals and rogue nations for a while now. The Russians don't seem to care so long as he continues to give them quality intel."

"Well," Clint said. "I think it's time to start making them care."

* * *

_July 11, 2004_

Natasha felt her pillow against the back of her head as she saw curtains open in front of her. She was in a strange state of sleep. Even though she was aware that she was dreaming, her dream was so vivid that it was easy to become immersed in it. What she was seeing, feeling, and hearing was as good as real.

She stepped out into the lights, where she saw the cavernous auditorium of the world famous Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow. This was the biggest stage of them all, and thousands of people had come just to see her. They were all sitting there attentively, on the floor as well as in the galleries that lined the theatre's magnificent walls.

Classical music began to play, bringing a serene mood to the theatre. _Don't disappoint them_, Natasha thought as she leaped forward to begin her performance. She landed on her toes, where she stayed. With her arms raised above her, she lightly tiptoed from one side of the stage to the other. Natasha felt herself genuinely smiling. The feeling came so rarely for her that it was almost strange.

She was at peace, doing what she loved to do. Or what she had always wanted to do, as a girl. She didn't remember ever performing as a ballerina, even though the moves came to her as if from memory. Natasha stopped as she reached the right side of the stage, where she crossed her legs and spread her arms before turning back the other way.

The music suddenly picked up as she launched herself into a series of leaps. She kept bending one leg back along with her arms and her head, gracefully demonstrating her flexibility as she flew through the air. The jumps were over after her fourth landing, but Natasha didn't come to a stop. Without pausing for a second, she began to pirouette. All she saw were spinning lights as she twirled on her toes.

A pair of arms caught her as she stopped turning. Natasha looked up and was startled by who she saw. "Alexei?" she asked in disbelief. He was the same dashing young agent whom she had trained with once before. One of only two boys who had ever come close to her heart. But that was a long time ago, and a lifetime away. "But how? I thought you were -"

"On a mission?" he asked, giving her a mischievous smile as he lifted her into the air. He carried her in his strong embrace, before swinging her gently back down onto her feet.

"Didn't know you were much of a dancer," Natasha said.

Alexei picked her up again and twirled around. But he was swinging harder now, and building momentum. He finally stopped as he slammed her down onto the stage.

"Ah!" Natasha cried as she bounced off of the unforgiving wood. She rolled over to look at him as she rubbed her back in pain.

"Didn't know you were much of a fighter," he teased.

Natasha cracked a smile. Ballet was nice, but it was the dream of a little girl. Fighting was what she lived for now. She snapped back up and ran forward to attack. Once again, she leaped into the air and spun. But this time it was no dance move. It was a tornado kick. Alexei was quick enough to duck under her outstretched leg. He wasn't quick enough to dodge the follow-up kick that she delivered upon landing.

"Ugh!" Alexei yelled as he stumbled back and clutched his stomach. He quickly recomposed himself and assumed a playful dance pose. "Shall we?" he asked as he stretched out his arm to invite her in once again.

Natasha looked him in the eye and raised her eyebrows in acknowledgment, before she assumed a martial arts stance instead. "It's your move."

Alexei came in with both fists flying. "Yah!" he shouted as he swung for a left hook. Natasha ducked, feeling his arm graze the hair on her head. He instantly reversed for a backhand with the same arm.

"That all you got?!" Natasha taunted as she raised both arms to block the blow.

"Almost," he said with a smirk.

Natasha suddenly felt his leg sweep up behind her own, tripping her. "Whoa!" she shouted as she hit the stage once more. She rolled to evade his kicks and stomps, before she flipped back up onto her feet. Alexei came in again, but she turned him back with a high kick to the chin. She lowered her leg and saw that he was still stumbling from the hit. She had been waiting for such an opening.

She rushed forward and she leaped, flaring her legs out as he turned back in her direction. Natasha wished that she could see the look on his face as he entered her leg scissors. With his head and neck caught in her iron grip, Natasha twisted him around and sent him to the floor.

Alexei crashed into a living room coffee table. The setting had suddenly changed, though Natasha didn't think much of it. She simply took a quick look around at her new surroundings. The walls were cream-colored, while the doors and woodwork around the fireplace were white. There was a set of light brown sofas in the room, with thick pillows resting on each one. The whole place looked rather cozy. Natasha didn't remember ever being in a place like this, but the room seemed strangely familiar.

The only thing that surprised her was the little red-haired girl sitting in the corner. The child couldn't have been more than three years old. She was happy to play with her own toys, seemingly unbothered by the fighting. Natasha didn't know who the girl was, but she felt an instant connection to her.

"That's good, Natasha," Alexei said as he pushed himself up. "Glad to see you haven't lost a step."

"Yeah?" she replied. "What about you?" The two of them went at it again, trading blows. Alexei finally grabbed her around the waist and pushed forward, pinning her against the wall. Not one to just give up, Natasha wrapped her legs around him and squeezed. She could hear him wheezing as he struggled to breathe.

Alexei held on though, reminding her that he had always been so much stronger than all of the other men that she knew. He turned and slammed her into another wall. Behind him, Natasha could hear the little girl giggling. Alexei was still struggling to break free, fighting Natasha every step of the way even as his body succumbed to her grip. Their faces drew close to one another's. Natasha wanted to kiss him. She did.

The door suddenly burst open. A black-clad assault team swarmed into the house with AK-74 assault rifles. Natasha watched in horror as one of the men slammed his rifle butt into the back of Alexei's head, knocking him out cold.

"Get away from him!" Natasha cried as several of the intruders pulled Alexei away. "Alexei! No!" The rest of the team descended on her with fists and rifle butts. She crumpled to the floor, after which they turned to stomps. Her odd but pleasant dream had transformed into a nightmare, one that she saw no escape from. It was the worst feeling in the world for Natasha, to be so powerless and at the mercy of others.

The stomping finally ceased, but Natasha's body was too broken for her to get up again. One of the men pointed his rifle barrel in her face as the others went to work on the house. They smashed the china cabinet, threw chairs, and flipped over tables. One of them began to douse the floor and walls with gasoline.

Alexei tried to crawl back to her even as one of the men pressed a rifle down against his back. "Don't do it!" Natasha screamed. "Please! Don't!" Her desperate pleas did nothing to sway her attackers. The rifle fired, instantly killing Alexei. His prone, motionless body continued to stare at her even as blood flowed out from its mouth.

Another man laughed as he lit a match and threw it, setting the house ablaze. The intruders left Natasha and headed for the door. One of them grabbed the little girl. The once happy child shrieked as she was carried away. Natasha lied on the floor, unable to do anything to save her. She reached out in a useless attempt to help. The child's fear overwhelmed her, shaking her to the core. Even as the flames encircled her, all she could think about was that poor helpless child...

"NOOOOO!" Natasha suddenly found herself sitting up in bed. Her vision was blurry from the tears that were gushing out of her eyes. Tears. She was crying. The realization made her feel even more pathetic. She hunched over and contorted her face in anguish. Her breath came out of her in frantic gasps. All she could do was sob.

"Natasha!" she heard Uncle Ivan say as he entered the room. Of all the rooms in the building, hers was the only one without a lock. She had been annoyed by that before. But at that moment, it didn't seem to matter. "What's going on?" Ivan asked as he sat down on the bed and took her into his embrace.

"They...they killed Alexei," Natasha said.

"Who killed Alexei?" Ivan asked.

"The men in the black suits. The people...who burned down the house."

"No, Natasha," Ivan replied. "You were just dreaming. Alexei died four years ago, don't you remember? He died in a plane crash."

Natasha grew still as her senses returned to her. Alexei _had_ died in a plane crash, just as Uncle Ivan had said. He had told her the same exact thing for years ago, right after it had happened.

"Shh," Ivan said as he turned and held her closer.

Natasha finally opened her eyes again. That was when she saw the dollhouse, standing on the drawer behind Ivan's shoulder. Delicately handmade, it was more of a decoration than a toy. It was the only decoration in her otherwise bare and functional room. Uncle Ivan had given it to her as a gift many years ago, not long after he had saved her from the apartment fire that had killed her parents.

"You were just dreaming," Ivan said. "None of it was real."

The living room of the dollhouse was instantly recognizable. It had a fireplace, cream-colored walls, and soft brown sofas covered with pillows. Just like the room that she had dreamed about. There were two dolls inside. Seated on one of the couches was a large man, with black hair and a mustache. On his lap was a happy, red-haired little girl.

None of it was real.

_**To be continued in Chapter 4: Command and Control**_


	4. Command and Control

**Chapter Four**

**Command and Control**

_July 12, 2004_

Clint dropped his archery target in the corner of the Helicarrier's hangar. He had bought the thing on his way back from his last mission more than a week ago, but he hadn't gotten a chance to use it until now. The target was a black cube of foam about twenty inches wide, with white circles painted on each side. It looked like a big die, and it felt like a child's toy. It was the best that he was able to get.

He carried his compound bow with its side-mounted quiver five arrows. This weapon, on the other hand, was top quality. The type of bow that would be used in professional competition. It had cost him half a paycheck, but Clint had been set on spending that much on himself for once.

Compounds had a "high tech" look that most laymen didn't associate with bows. Made of lightweight composites, they had a pulley at the end of each limb, with cables running in between. They could store more energy on the draw and launch arrows further than otherwise possible. The complex mechanics made the bows more sensitive and susceptible to damage, but that was just another price to pay for the performance that they offered.

He walked back as far as he could, before stopping in front of a Harrier jump jet. Clint turned around and looked at his target. It was about twenty-five yards away, not enough to test any top-tier archer. He hoped that it wouldn't test him, but it had been months since he had found the time to pick up a bow. SHIELD held regular handgun and rifle exercises aboard the Helicarrier, but it showed no such support for archery. _If you don't use it, you lose it_, Clint feared.

The others had mocked him for his liking of bows and arrows. Bows were obsolete, they had said. Too short-ranged. Too slow and impractical. Clint did what he was told, but he didn't care for the attitude. He didn't like the way they were always trying to change him. An archer was who he was. At least, it was what he thought of himself as. There were times when he pondered just why he had gotten into archery in the first place.

It had been almost three decades since his parents had died in a terrible car accident caused by his own drunken father. With no other relatives who could care for them, Clint and his brother Barney were placed in foster care. It was hell. Nothing but troubled kids and "parents" who didn't give a damn. The two of them put up with that for a few years, before taking off on their own.

The Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders just happened to be in town when they made that decision. The boys were taken by its grandeur and showmanship. They loved the idea of seeing the country, and they craved the adoration of the crowds. Adoration that they had never received from any of their parents. The carnies took them in without asking too many questions.

Clint helped with menial tasks while waiting for his chance to perform. Like other boys, he had grown up on tales of Captain America. Clint loved the idea of wearing a colorful costume, and being the center of attention. He wanted to be the guy that everyone else looked up to.

On occasion, he would dream of fighting alongside Cap himself. The two of them would be facing down evil, with impossible odds stacked against them. Cap would issue decisive orders. And though he would be filled with excitement and awe, Clint would give a levelheaded response. He'd say something like "My pleasure, Captain," right before getting to work.

He was still a growing boy though, so it would be years before he was ready to step out in front of the crowds. But that was always on his mind as he packed boxes and scooped manure. For a while, Clint wanted to take after the carnival's strongman. He thought about calling himself "Goliath," and he even had a gaudy costume planned out in his mind. With his bare chest and his bulging biceps, he'd make the ladies swoon with feats of strength.

Things didn't quite work out that way. Despite countless hours of lifting, Clint never developed such a physique. However, others at the carnival were willing to take him under their wings. There was the flamboyant Frenchman Jacques Duquesne, and the gruff, burly archer Buck Chisholm. "Swordsman" and "Trickshot," they called themselves respectively. The two men performed in purple costumes, dazzling the crowds with their skill in archaic weaponry.

Under their direction, Clint became "Hawkeye the Marksman." He had a similar costume but a much younger body. As Hawkeye, he combined the accuracy of Trickshot and the athleticism of the Swordsman. Things went well for years, even though Clint was occasionally worried by his mentors' gambling and drinking habits.

Everything changed one night in New Jersey. Drowning in debt, Duquesne had partnered with local gangsters on a scheme to rob the carnival. Still in costume after doing a show, Clint reluctantly tried to stop them. Duquesne offered Clint a cut of the money if he would just step aside, but Clint refused. One of the gangsters pulled a gun. Clint reacted, putting an arrow through his heart. Clint was frozen in horror at the sight of the dying man, unable to do anything as Duquesne attacked.

Duquesne beat him within an inch of his life. He would have gone all the way, had Chisholm and Barney not intervened. They saved Clint, but working at the carnival was over for all of them. Clint had gotten on the bad side of organized crime, in addition to a possible murder charge. The three of them had to go on the run. Barney became angry right after finding out that Clint had chosen this trouble over easy money. He got on a bus and left. Clint never saw his brother again.

Chisholm stayed with him though. They were Trickshot and Hawkeye. Partners. Together, the two of them became thieves, committing a series of robberies in full costume. At first, they stole out of revenge against the very gang that they were running from. Then, they stole just to eat. It was still a lot of fun though, and a great distraction from the utter mess that Clint's life had become. Reality eventually caught up with him after a job gone wrong. Chisholm angrily put an arrow in Clint's shoulder and left him for the cops.

And that was how he came into SHIELD's hands. A young agent named Phil Coulson visited him in jail, offering to wipe Clint's criminal record and give him a job. Working for SHIELD had been an easy choice at the time. Clint would not have accepted it so readily though, had he known about all that it would involve.

He finally stopped reminiscing as he pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it on his bowstring. Clint turned his body ninety degrees from his target. _Feet shoulder width apart_, he thought. _Back foot slightly forward_. Proper form should have been instinct for someone such as himself, but he reminded himself of the basics just to make sure that he hadn't forgotten.

He drew his arrow back in one smooth continuous motion as he simultaneously pushed forward with his bow hand, making sure to keep his arms parallel to the floor. Clint brought his drawing hand back anchored it against his cheek. The bowstring was touching the tip of his nose, just like it should be. _So far, so good_. He aligned his bow's sights on the middle circle of the target and exhaled. The only way to find out if he still had it was to shoot.

Clint released his arrow and watched it sail all the way to the target. _Bull's-eye_, he thought. He repeated the process with each of his four remaining arrows, scoring perfect hits with each of them. _Haven't completely lost it_, Clint thought. He didn't know if he still completely had it either. After all, the target was just a paltry twenty-five yards away. That was all the space he was going to get on that crowded and busy ship.

It would be an ongoing struggle to maintain his skills, while dealing with the many pressures and distractions of his job. He was an archer who had once dreamed of being a hero. SHIELD had turned him into a gunman and a killer. They had changed him, just like his parents, foster parents, Duquesne, and Chisholm had before them. Control, change, and loss. It was the story of his life. Clint no longer craved attention. Not after he realized what other people always did to him.

He was walking to retrieve his arrows when he heard someone behind him. "Having fun?" Agent Hill asked.

"I was," Clint said as he turned around.

"Remember Ahmad Hussaini?"

"The Jordanian businessman?" Clint asked. "The guy we've been trying to find for two months?"

"Yeah," Hill replied. "The guy who's been using his connections to supply terrorists back home."

"What about him?" Clint asked.

"We just located him at a vacation home in Southern France," Hill said. "He's meeting with a terrorist leader. This is our first big break since the intel on Engel's thumb drive dried up. We're moving in, Barton. I want you on the team."

"Why?" he asked. "Because of my surveillance skills? My excellent decision-making?"

"Of course not," Hill replied. "I need a shooter. You're the best trigger man we've got."

* * *

Natasha heard the horn of the freight train passing by outside her bedroom window. The sound was as loud and annoying as usual. It might have woken her up, had she been able to go back to sleep the night before.

_None of it was real_, she told herself again. She was just dreaming, as Uncle Ivan had said. The words failed to reassure her though. It was frightening to think that she couldn't trust her own thoughts and feelings. Everything had been so sharp, so clear and detailed. If she had been imagining things, she had done a very good job of that.

Turning to the clock at her bedside, she saw that it was four fifty-nine AM. Natasha reached and turned off her alarm clock before it could sound off and flood her ears with more unnecessary noise. It was time to get ready for the long day ahead.

She washed up and got dressed in her usual efficient manner. By six fifteen, she was out in the hallways of the academy heading to her first training session. All of the twenty-seven girls there had a full course load, rotating from room to room throughout the day. Uncle Ivan's "little Tsarinas" weren't just spies. Each of them was to be molded into a perfect lady: beautiful, intelligent, and skillful enough to navigate through any social circle.

There was language training. Natasha had become fluent in English at a young age, learning it right alongside her native Russian. English had been such a priority that it was closer to being her first language than Russian was. Everyone at the Red Room conversed in English as a matter of policy. It was the language of Natasha's own thoughts, and she had mastered it to the extent that she was no longer required to train in it.

She was also fluent in French and Italian, and well on her way to finishing Latin. That archaic language was no longer in common use, but it was distinctive and could potentially impress the right people. Spanish and Chinese were also in her curriculum.

It wasn't enough to know a language though. The girls had to be skilled in their usage. A strong grasp of culture, connotations, and word play was required. They had to know how to achieve desired psychological effects. How to use words to project an image of themselves, beyond what could be conveyed by their appearances alone. How to carry a conversation, and seduce a man.

There were also technical skills to learn. Computers, security systems, tools, and weapons were all covered. The girls were taught how to break into any place, and if need be, fight their way out. Hands-on training was regularly provided for handguns, rifles, knives, and unarmed combat.

All of this grueling training was held under the hammer and sickle of the Soviet Union. Uncle Ivan had insisted on keeping the red flags, as a reminder of the glory days when Russia was still a global superpower. He didn't care for the fact that people back in their home country no longer flew the flags. The Red Room was a piece of old Soviet Russia on foreign soil. It was a home for people who no longer had any other home.

Though Ivan had raised her with the same beliefs, Natasha didn't feel as strongly about Russia as he did. From childhood, she had been immersed in American ways as part of her training. She was comfortable with American language and customs. She had watched American movies and television shows. Natasha loved American culture. She just knew enough to hate American politics.

Natasha worked her way into the evening, throwing herself into her training in an effort to forget her previous night. At six PM, she was in her final class for the day: Jiu-jitsu. She was wearing a martial arts gi and sitting around a padded mat with nine other girls. A male instructor stood in the middle of the mat, ready to supervise their sparring.

"You've been very good, Natasha," he said. "Show the other girls what you know." He motioned for her to get up. Natasha walked to the middle and waited for him to select her opponent. The instructor looked around before making his choice. "Come, Yelena."

Yelena Belova was a blonde girl several years younger than Natasha was, with cruel eyes and a scowl seemingly fixed on her face. She was pretty like every other girl at the Red Room, but her attitude was very uninviting. Despite that, Yelena had top scores in combat and technical skills. She tested even higher than Natasha had at the same age. Yelena had always made a point to bring that up whenever she had the chance.

She made eye contact with Natasha as she came near. Though Yelena didn't say a word, Natasha could tell that she relished the opportunity to prove herself. Natasha stood her ground and stared back. She was in no mood to take any insults from Yelena that day. "Fight!" the instructor shouted.

Natasha and Yelena circled around, testing each other with low kicks and jabs. Neither of them was too scared to commit. Instead, they were methodically looking for an opportunity to strike. Yelena leaned in for a punch. Natasha backpedaled, realizing in mid-step that she had opened herself to attack. Yelena pounced at her legs with almost superhuman speed. Natasha turned and used her momentum against her, throwing Yelena across the mat.

Yelena grunted and pounded the mat with her fist. She sprung right back up into an attack. Natasha dodged and blocked as Yelena swung away at her. She could feel the hatred behind the blows.

"Ugh!" Natasha yelled as she took a left hook that spun her around and sent her stumbling several steps away. She turned back and looked at her opponent while she rubbed her cheek. "Not bad, Yelena. If only you spent as much time working on your other skills. Or on your charm."

"You call yourself Russian?" Yelena said. "You make me sick. I don't share your appreciation for American language." She launched into another attack, punching away with both fists. Natasha huddled up to withstand the onslaught. "American culture," Yelena continued. She grabbed Natasha and swung her around the mat. Natasha stumbled again. She regained her footing and turned around, just a moment before Yelena's foot drove into her stomach. "Or American _men_." Yelena kicked her again while she was down, sending her onto her back.

Natasha clutched her belly as she worked to get back up. But the pain went away in an instant, replaced with rage. Yelena had actually gone there.

"Why get up?" Yelena asked. "You're pretty good at lying down."

Now it was Natasha's turn to be angry. She charged forward and struck hard, putting her weight behind each of her blows. Yelena fell back, clearly unprepared for such a furious counterattack. Natasha kept pressing on though. She could feel a repressed rage bursting out from within. It was anger that she didn't even know she had. And strangely, it wasn't all directed toward Yelena either.

Natasha felt herself striking back against the vague notion of all those who had mistreated and manipulated her before. She definitely felt as if she were taking revenge against the men who had killed Alexei and burned down her house, fictional as they might be. She was Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow. Nobody's pawn or doormat.

Seeing Yelena reel back, Natasha dived forward for a double leg takedown. The two of them hit the mat. Yelena was a good fighter though. She regained her composure and went for a reversal, flipping Natasha over. Now Natasha found herself in a guard position, on the bottom with her legs wrapped around her opponent's body. She covered up her face as Yelena punched down at her.

The right-handed punches landed heavily against her arms, but Natasha was ready for them. As the fourth punch came down, Natasha grabbed Yelena's arm and pulled it down across her chest. Their bodies were close now, too close for Yelena to keep striking. Yelena panicked and pulled her free arm back. Natasha had been looking for that opening.

She swung her right leg up and across the back of Yelena's neck. Natasha raised her left leg next, placing it over her right foot to lock it in place. She then reached up to take hold of Yelena's head with both hands. Natasha pulled down with her legs and hands as she pushed up with her hips, applying pressure in three different ways. The move was a triangle choke, a well-known method of stopping the flow of blood to someone's brain.

Yelena tapped out in submission. Natasha didn't care. She kept pulling down, even harder than she had before. Yelena slipped, and the two of them rolled onto their sides. Natasha kept squeezing, even as she heard her instructor yelling for her to stop. Yelena went limp, but she still wouldn't let go. Several pairs of arms finally yanked her off. The girls themselves had to help get her off.

"Get up!" Natasha yelled as she struggled back toward her fallen foe. Four of the other girls were barely able to hold her back. Natasha saw the instructor check Yelena's pulse, before he got up and turned to her. The man had a look of shock and astonishment on his face. Natasha could tell that she had scared even him.

"You're done here," he said.

"Class isn't over yet," Natasha said.

"It is for you today," the instructor said. It was all he could say in such a situation. The Red Room had always worked to instill a killer instinct in its trainees. The protocol was not sufficiently designed to handle the logical conclusion to that.

* * *

Natasha wiped the sweat off her brow as she carried her things down the hallway toward the private quarters that she shared with Uncle Ivan. The anger had disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving her with a feeling of confusion and uneasiness. It had been a long day as usual, and her lack of sleep hadn't helped.

She came to a stop outside her door. There were voices inside. Natasha leaned in close to listen.

"Something's not right with her, Ivan," Dr. Sergeyev said. "Everyone else can see it."

"So she had a bad dream," Ivan said. "We've taken care of that before."

"That's not all and you know it," Sergeyev said. "You're too close to her. I'm talking about her instability. That independent streak she's developed. Even our treatments aren't lasting as long as they used to. We're losing control."

"The treatments are supposed to be your expertise," Ivan replied. "Funny, I never had such problems with Professor Pchelintsov."

"I am not Pchelintsov," Sergeyev said. "I'm better than him."

"Then prove it," Ivan said. "Concoct a dose of your new serum for me, if the old one isn't enough."

"Or what?" Sergeyev asked. "You'll make me disappear? Send me off on another 'special assignment?'"

"The boy should be grateful," Ivan said. "It was on my recommendation that he received your first dose."

"Yes, it was," Sergeyev said. "A good consolation for losing everything else. Just remember this, Ivan. I do not work for you. I work for our leaders back home. Now I know you're up to something big. You can have the serum, but I want in."

"That can be arranged," Ivan said.

"And if you double-cross me," Sergeyev said, "I will make sure you neither get the serum, nor keep her. Believe me. I have things that can open her eyes."

Natasha could tell that the conversation was over. She ran down the hall in the opposite direction as quietly as she could. The door opened. That was her signal to turn around. Natasha pretended to go through her bag as Sergeyev came out into the hallway. She gave him a casual glance before looking back down at her own things. Sergeyev walked off down the stairs.

_What's going on?_ Natasha thought. The Red Room wasn't the nicest of homes, and Natasha hardly considered most of the other people there to be her family. But she never thought that she would have to spy there.

* * *

_July 18, 2004_

"Eyes open, Barton," Agent Hill said. "Assault teams are almost ready."

"I can see," Clint replied, choosing not to say any more. The two of them were sprawled out on a forested hill, hiding among its lush vegetation. Clint had a suppressed semi-automatic sniper rifle laid out on a bipod in front of him. His eye hadn't left its scope since the two assault teams had first headed out toward the target. He didn't think that he would have to emphasize the fact to Hill. But he also wasn't going to fight with her about it in the middle of a mission.

Hill lied next to him, with binoculars and a radio in hand. She had done a lot of things in the Marines, but working in a sniper team hadn't been one of them. Still, she was the highest-ranked agent there, and was thus in command of the mission. Everything between the various components of the task force would have to pass through her.

Clint was aware that she regarded him as another tool, or an extension of her will. He wasn't there to make any decisions. He was there to feed her information, and to shoot the targets of her choice.

Half a kilometer away stood Ahmad Hussaini's lakeside retreat. The house was quite beautiful, and far more expensive than anything Clint could ever hope to own. To a billionaire like Hussaini, it probably wasn't much. Only men like him could quietly acquire such an asset without being strongly associated with it. Clint doubted if he had ever actually stayed in the house before.

There were four vehicles parked outside. One was Hussaini's black Rolls-Royce Phantom. There was also an expensive Mercedes there, which hadn't been mentioned in the intel. The car and its occupants must have arrived just before Clint and the other agents had. Finally, there were two common sedans. Those had brought in a half-dozen terrorists, including the mid-level leader whom Hussaini was dealing with.

Four of those terrorists patrolled the perimeter of the property, armed with automatic weapons. They weren't enough to fend off the SHIELD assault teams who would converge on the house from two different sides. However, it was for the best that they be taken out quietly, so that Hussaini could be apprehended in an efficient manner.

Clint swept around the outside, to reconfirm the positions and tendencies of each guard. And although Agent Hill hadn't told him to, he decided to inspect the windows of the house. There was a butler inside, as well as a couple of Hussaini's closest business associates. No one who wasn't expected to be there...

He suddenly saw a woman and a young boy enter the study with Hussaini and one of the terrorists. The woman was upset, but Hussaini resisted her pleas. He ordered her and the child to stay in the room, before leaving to proceed with his business.

"Holy crap," Clint said.

"What is it?" Hill asked.

"Hussaini's wife and kid are here. He must have brought them in for protection. _They're_ the ones who came in that other car."

"Doesn't change a thing," Hill said. "Get ready. Assault teams are in position."

She may have been right, but Clint was still bothered by the coldness with which she said it. Clint pointed his scope toward the guard walking along the western wall of the house. He would have to be the first to go. The leaves on the nearby trees were gently leaning to the left. Clint estimated the wind to be moving no more than four kilometers per hour. It was nothing that he couldn't handle.

"Ten seconds..." Hill said.

Clint breathed in before slowly exhaling. He couldn't afford the luxury of breathing while taking a shot from that far away. The continual flow of oxygen into his lungs would cause his body, and by extension his rifle, to rise and fall ever so slightly. Enough to send his bullet awry.

But holding his breath for too long wasn't an option either. Besides neglecting his obvious biological needs, going without oxygen would throw off his ability to aim straight. The best shots were taken right upon reaching the bottom of the breathing cycle. It was all a matter of timing.

"Fire," Hill said.

Clint had just emptied his lungs. He aimed toward the right of his target, compensating for the man's movement as well as the wind. Gently he pulled the trigger back, before squeezing it all the way. It was important not to jerk the rifle out of alignment while doing so. Clint saw his bullet strike the terrorist's head. One shot, one kill. He had given the man no chance to scream.

"Alpha Team, go," Hill said. "Barton, front steps, now."

He pointed there as he was told. Another guard stood in front of the main entrance. The man was oblivious to his comrade's death, as well as to his own impending demise. Clint fired again, taking him with another single shot despite having to rush through the process. He knew that he had good, steady hands. If only he had been a surgeon instead.

"Eastern ridge," Hill said. "Near those bushes."

Bravo Team was moving fast by that position, in complete trust of Clint's ability to get them through without delay. He made sure not to disappoint them.

The two teams reached their sides of the house at precisely the same time. They kicked down the doors and stormed in with their flashbangs and assault rifles. There was little Clint could do at this point, but watch and listen.

"Tango down!" Clint heard from Hill's radio. It had come from Agent Clay Quartermain, the squad leader Bravo Team.

"Civilians secured on first floor!" reported Agent Jimmy Woo of Alpha Team. "Wait, we're taking fire. Two tangos fleeing upstairs!"

"Pursue them," Hill ordered.

Clint noticed that she wasn't even looking at him anymore. He didn't wait to be told what to do next. Swinging his rifle around, he scanned the windows of the second floor. Hussaini and the terrorist leader appeared in the third room and slammed the door shut behind them. The terrorist was nursing several bullet wounds, but he was also clutching tightly onto his own gun. Clint put him down with a quick shot through the chest.

"Get to the third room!" Hill said. "Hussaini's inside!"

"Affirmative," Agent Woo replied.

Clint had refrained from shooting Hussaini as well. The man was a valuable source of information, and was also unarmed. However, he didn't look willing to surrender without a fight. Hussaini bent over and grabbed something from his fallen ally. Clint saw him stand up with a grenade in his hand, before stumbling past the window and into an obscured part of the room.

_Oh my God_, Clint thought. Woo's team would be storming inside that room any second. There wasn't enough time to relay the information through Hill. Clint pointed his rifle to the right of the window and fired away, sending a spread of three rounds through that section of the wall. No windage, no breath control, and no aiming. It was some of the sloppiest shooting that Clint had ever done. He saw a spray of blood fly past the window. It had worked.

Or so he thought. The grenade came flying out of Hussaini's hands a second later, bouncing somewhere near the door. "Pull back!" Clint yelled to Hill. "Pull back!" She couldn't get a word in before the explosion came. "Jimmy! No!"

"I'm okay," Agent Woo said between gasps. "My Kevlar took most of the fragments."

Clint breathed out in relief. He noticed that his hands were wrapped tightly around his rifle, quite uncharacteristic for him. It took a few moments for his nerves to come back. Clint swept his rifle over the rest of the windows, for a final check.

There was nobody left, except for Hussaini's wife and son. The two of them were clutching each other on the floor, hysterical. In another minute, one of the agents would be there to tell that woman that her husband was dead. To tell that boy that they had taken away his father.

_What was the damn point?_ Clint thought. _They kill us, we kill them._ An eye for an eye left the whole world blind, people would say. But still, that was how the world seemed to work. Clint closed his eyes and hung his head. He hoped that some good would come from what he had done that day.

_**To be continued in Chapter 5: Gift of**** Death**_


	5. Gift of Death

**Chapter 5**

**Gift of Death**

_July 19, 2004_

"Hey, Barton!" Director Fury called out.

Clint stopped and turned around, seeing Fury and Coulson on the other end of the crowded hallway leading to the Helicarrier's bridge. _Crap_, he thought. _What now?_ He quickly jogged back to find out what was going on. "What is it, Director?"

"Agent Coulson here has been telling me about your fine shooting on the Hussaini raid yesterday," Fury said. "Well done, Agent Barton."

"Thank you, sir..." Clint replied. He really didn't think he deserved the praise

"Things could've turned out bad," Coulson said. "It's because of you that no one was killed."

_No one on our side_, Clint thought as he nodded. And while no SHIELD agents had died, there was a casualty. "Hey," Clint said. "How's Agent Woo doing?"

"The doctors pulled five grenade fragments from his arms and legs," Coulson said. "Nothing too bad though. He should be out of the hospital in a week."

"That's good," Clint said. He had shot Hussaini, and still Jimmy had been hit. Things hadn't turned out worse out of pure dumb luck. If he had fired one split-second later, if he had missed or if the grenade had rolled just a few of inches closer to the door, Agent Woo would be dead. And he would be standing there getting chewed out by Fury instead of being praised as the hero that he wasn't.

"Make sure to give Agent Woo sufficient time to recuperate," Fury said to Coulson.

"Sure thing," Coulson said. "In the mean time, we'll keep going through the material we've recovered."

"What was it again?" Clint asked. "A laptop and fifty million euros?"

"Yup," Coulson replied. "Several big suitcases, all in five hundred euro denominations. Hussaini must have withdrawn it from his accounts before they were all frozen. He lost almost everything else. The guy was practically broke."

"I'd like to go broke like that," Clint remarked. "Though it'd be kind of hard to spend five hundred euros on groceries. The guy must've been saving it all for something big."

"I'm afraid to think of what it could be," Fury said. "Stay on this, Coulson. This could turn out bigger than that green sasquatch I'm chasing."

"Yes sir," Coulson said, before Fury departed for the bridge. He turned back to Clint. "I'll keep you in the loop about anything that turns up."

"Thanks," Clint said. "Anything I can do to help for now?"

"Actually," Coulson said, "it's your lucky day. Head on down to Personal Effects. Dr. Boothroyd has something for you."

* * *

Walking down a flight of stairs, Clint made his way into the darkness of the Helicarrier's lower decks. "Personal Effects" was the curious name for SHIELD's weapons development department, located in a laboratory deep within the ship's hull. The good Dr. Boothroyd and his assistants seemed to live there, working in complete secrecy. The agents didn't see them very often. But on the infrequent occasions that they were called down there, the agents always knew that they'd be in for a surprise.

Clint's footsteps echoed as he made his way down the hall toward the lab. Those were the only sounds down there, besides the eerie creaking of the ship. His destination was behind a nondescript metal door, marked with the words "Personal Effects" in fading white paint. Clint pressed the button on the intercom there and announced his arrival. "Agent Barton here. You sent for me?"

The door slid open in front of him, revealing a brightly lit laboratory with white walls that stood in complete contrast to hall outside. Scientists in lab coats were walking back and forth, attending to various projects. The tables were covered by chemical mixtures and bizarre machines.

"Ah, Agent Barton!" Boothroyd said as he approached. "Delighted to see you haven't gotten yourself killed!" Dr. Desmond Boothroyd was the ship's head scientist and armorer. He was a bald British man in his fifties, with a well-trimmed mustache and dyed black hair on the sides of his head. Unlike his assistants, he wore expensive, finely tailored suits. Boothroyd smiled a lot, and he seemed to take great pride and pleasure in his work. He was known to banter with his "customers" as he tried to sell them on his products.

Personal Effects had come up with a lot of crazy gear over the years, much of which had been met with disapproval from the more traditional leaders at SHIELD. But to their chagrin, most of Boothroyd's products had been effective. Because of that, his department was tolerated and his suggestions were allowed to override the protests of his detractors.

"Well, I try not to disappoint," Clint replied.

"That you do, young man," Boothroyd said. "That you do." He turned around and motioned for Clint to follow. "Right this way. You're in for a treat!"

Clint walked with him, watching the other scientists at work as they made their way through the lab. One of the scientists jumped back as a puff of smoke exploded out of his test tubes. Another ducked as a mechanical arm swung a sword over his head. Clint hoped that he wouldn't be in for too much of a surprise.

"This is it," Boothroyd said as he reached a table standing on the far side of the room. "The VP2DS."

"The what?" Clint asked.

"The Variable Payload Precision Delivery System." Boothroyd stepped aside to present his latest in high-tech weaponry.

"It's...a bow," Clint said.

"Why yes, it's bow," Boothroyd said with a brief hint of annoyance. "You only argued to use one for most of your career."

"Stopped bothering after a while," Clint said. "I wasn't very persuasive."

"Of course not," Boothroyd before smiling again. "It's a rather silly idea, don't you think? I had to make up the acronym just so I could tell people what I've been working on!"

Clint gave Boothroyd a small smile of his own before he walked over to examine the bow. "Just a recurve?" he asked. Recurve bows had tips that curved away from the archer, allowing them to store more energy on the draw than straight bows could. That had been a great innovation, several centuries ago. Recurve bows had long become mundane, with performance levels that fell short of compound bows. "How long have you been holed up in this lab, Doc? You sure you're up to date on what's out there?"

"I'm quite aware," Boothroyd said. "But do you remember though, what happened to the last bow you took into the field? The last one before they said you couldn't use a bow at all?"

"Uh..." Clint said. He recalled smashing his old compound bow over a mercenary's head, only to see his weapon fall apart moments after. He also remembered having to scramble for a gun to finish that fight with, as bullets still flew overhead.

"Given your penchant for turning your bows into blunt instruments, I decided to childproof this one," Boothroyd said. "It's lightweight, sturdy, and simple. Though not without a few tricks of its own."

"Keep going, Doc," Clint said. "Impress me."

Boothroyd looked him in the eye and grinned, relishing the opportunity. He took hold of the bow and turned it so that Clint could see the handle. There were four buttons on it, each one located where a user's finger would rest. "These buttons are numbered one to four, from top to bottom. They allow you to control various accessories."

Sliding his finger up the bow, he pointed to a small cylinder with a red lens at the end. "This here is the multifunction laser target pointer and illumination device. The visible laser dot it emits can be of assistance when you can't physically line up your sights."

"That's a nice thought," Clint said. "But I stopped needing training wheels a long time ago."

"So you say," Boothroyd said. "Though I doubt you'll be complaining about the target designation mode. Unless of course, you don't mind air support turning into friendly fire."

Clint chuckled. "That's if I'm ever lucky enough to _have_ air support," he said. "Anything else this thing can do?"

"Oh, there's plenty," Boothroyd said. "The infrared modes can be used with night vision devices, giving you greater accuracy and range of sight than goggles can alone. Speaking of which..." Boothroyd reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of sunglasses, which he placed on Clint's face.

"Sunglasses, Doc?" Clint asked. "Really? Show me something I haven't seen."

"Not just sunglasses," Boothroyd said. "_Night_ glasses." He reached in and pushed a button on the frame of the glasses.

"Ah!" Clint yelled, as everything he saw turned white. He took the glasses off and rubbed his eyes. Night vision worked by magnifying dim starlight to usable levels. Normal room lights were far too much.

Boothroyd giggled. "_Well_, I doubt anyone's ever shown you the inside of a lit room in night vision before."

"That they haven't," Clint said as he tried to blink away the spots he was seeing. "Like these a lot better than your usual stuff though. I can actually wear them on the street without scaring women away."

"Please, Agent Barton," Boothroyd said. "We both know your datebook is as empty as mine. Nothing like that Scottish fellow I used to work with at MI6. Now, if you'll turn your attention to the quiver over here..."

The two of them went to the next table, where Clint saw a wide metal quiver. It was composed of two cylinders set side-by-side, each one containing more than a dozen arrows. Arrow capacity was great to have, but the thing was a lot bigger than anything that Clint had ever packed. "I don't know about this, Doc. Looks kind of bulky."

"I assure you, it's not that heavy. Go on, pick it up."

Clint picked up the quiver and felt it in his hands. Despite its size, it was remarkably light.

"Ah, the marvels of modern metallurgy!" Boothroyd said. "What you have there is stronger than titanium, with only a fraction of the weight."

Clint nodded in approval as he continued to look over the quiver. Finally, he drew an arrow from it. All he saw was a headless shaft. "Hmm," he said. "Quality control's not what it used to be."

"All part of the design," Boothroyd replied. "The arrows are stored as blanks inside the quiver's rotating cylinders. Various arrowheads can be mounted in the bottom. Options include basic arrows, grappling hooks, explosives, flares, and other specialized variants. You can control the arrowhead selection by clicking various buttons on your bow handle. For example, the code for the grappling hook is currently one-one-three-two."

"Interesting," Clint said. "This thing come with a manual?"

"Right here," Boothroyd said. He slipped a small booklet into Clint's breast pocket, before smiling and giving him a light pat on the arm. "Study up, Agent Barton. Wouldn't want you launching an explosive at point-blank range."

"Well if that happens," Clint said, "I'll make sure to let everyone know it was my fault. Can't have them thinking it was you and your crazy inventions."

* * *

_July 20, 2004_

Natasha pounded away at the punching bag in front of her. She had lost track of time, although she knew that it had to be past ten o'clock. As busy as all the other girls were, they had long since finished their training for the day. But Natasha kept going. She couldn't relax anymore. Not since that awful dream of hers, more than a week ago. Things at the Red Room had only seemed to get worse since then.

_Jab, jab, cross punch, kick._ She repeated the combination again and again. Her arms and legs were extremely sore, but she kept going. It was all she could do to keep from going insane. _What's wrong with me?_ she thought. _What are they hiding?_ She didn't like where those thoughts were leading. _Jab, jab, cross punch, kick._

The gym doors opened behind her. Natasha didn't turn around. She already knew who it was.

"You've been working hard, Natasha," Uncle Ivan said. "I'm worried about you."

_Jab, jab, cross punch, kick._

"Talk to me. I want to know what you're thinking."

Natasha heard him come closer. She stopped hitting the bag and walked over to the sit-up bench without giving him as much as a look. Uncle Ivan made an awkward sound as if he was trying to say something before cutting his sentence short. Natasha got on the slanted bench and started her sit-ups, rising and falling like a machine. If Ivan wanted a discussion, it was up to him to do the talking.

"Please Natasha, talk to me. My heart feels broken...I can't bear this feeling any more. You know you're the only girl for me."

_Not good enough_, Natasha thought. She continued her sit-ups, moving past sixty. Lately, she hadn't been particularly concerned with how _he_ felt.

"Talk to me, damn it!" Ivan screamed.

Natasha stopped and slid off the bench. She turned around and glared at him. Ivan's temper had flared up again. He wasn't the one who had a right to be angry though. They would have a long talk, sometime or another. But first, she would get a few comments off her chest.

"You wanna talk?" she said. "Fine, let's talk. Why don't you tell me what I'm doing in this stupid place? I don't even know what I'm fighting for anymore."

"Oh Natasha, you must understand. What we do, we do for our country. I raised you to be a patriot."

"Yes, you did," she said. "Signed me right up before I could even think for myself." She looked up at the red flag hanging on the wall. The flag that no longer represented any living nation. The flag that Alexei had died for. "This is all yours. You took us away from Russia. From everywhere else. You made your own little world that I have to live in."

"I made this for you and me, kid," Ivan said. "What we have together is special, isn't it?"

Natasha chose not to respond.

"Think about it, please," Ivan said. "It's us two against the world. Always has been. Things outside fell apart. They no longer suit us."

_They no longer suit you_, Natasha thought.

"But here, we can carry on in our own way. That...is my _gift_ to you."

"I suppose I should thank you," Natasha said.

There was an awkward silence between them. Ivan looked off to the side as he thought of something to say. After several moments, he started talking again. "Remember your history, Natasha? Remember what you were taught about the Red Skull?"

Natasha sighed. "Of course I do," she said. Ivan was obviously straining to make a point with his blatant change of subject. She didn't know what he was getting at, just that he would find some way to make things fit his point of view. "He was a Nazi. An enemy of the people. I know."

"Correct," Ivan said. "He took an early version of the famous Super Soldier Serum. It transformed him. Twisted him into a monster. But he was also right, in some ways."

The comment took Natasha by surprise. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"The Red Skull walked his own path in life. He had goals, and he pursued them in defiance of his own government. When his country began to fall, when his flag no longer suited him, he created his own flag. He gained the power of the gods, and he almost brought Ragnarok upon his enemies. I have to admit, I admire how he did things."

"The Red Skull _lost_," Natasha said.

"Yes," Ivan said. "But he very nearly won." He turned around and started heading for the door. "Just something to think about."

* * *

_July 21, 2004_

Natasha knew she was dreaming again that night. Given the tension that she felt, it was a miracle that she had even fallen asleep. Something was off about the way she was dreaming. It was as if her dreams were trying to tell her something. Like she was on the cusp of uncovering a secret that she was already aware of on a vague, elusive level.

She had a large knife in her hand. It wasn't the type that she had stabbed people with before. It was a kitchen knife, like what a housewife would use to chop vegetables with. In fact, that was what she was doing. Natasha looked down and saw the apron wrapped around her body. _Only in a dream_, she thought, almost chuckling at the ridiculous idea. She looked up to survey the walls and furniture around her. It was the kitchen from her dollhouse.

"Hi honey, I'm home," Alexei said as he entered the room and laid his briefcase on the floor. He looked and talked just like a man from one of those old American sitcoms that she used to watch, though he retained his thick Russian accent. Alexei came up from behind, wrapping his arms around her body before giving her a passionate kiss. Her troubles seemed to vanish. The two of them kept kissing, until they finally separated more than a minute later.

"Good to see you too," Natasha said. Alexei Shostakov was such a brave, handsome patriot. She had often likened him to a "Russian Captain America." Had he not been a covert agent, all of Russia would have celebrated his name.

Alexei suddenly looked away, as if he were too ashamed to face her. "I...I'm sorry Natasha. I'm going away again. Maybe for a long time."

Those were his exact words to her, the last time they had seen each other in real life. The dream began to mimic her memory, even though the room and their clothes didn't change at all.

"It's just another mission," Natasha said. "You're acting like you're about to die." The irony of her own words was not lost on her as they replayed in her mind.

"Perhaps," Alexei said. He paused and looked down, still avoiding her eyes. "These things...should be expected." The words had seemed strange to Natasha years ago, when he had first said them. Now, they seemed oddly prescient.

Alexei suddenly looked her right in the eyes. "I love you, Natasha Romanoff. I'll always remember our time together."

"I love you too," she said, though she knew Alexei wasn't the sort to declare his love without something else in mind.

"Things went too far," he said. "I'm so sorry for distracting you. Your training...our careers...they must come first." He pointed down at her apron. "This isn't you. This can't be you."

"Maybe not this," she said as she took the apron off and tossed it aside. "But what about something _like_ this? We can be together, Alexei."

"No," he said, before shaking his head.

"Uncle Ivan talked to you again, didn't he?" she asked. "He's the one sending you away."

"Please, Natasha," Alexei said. "He and I have had our differences. But I'm grateful for this opportunity. This mission, it's a _gift_."

Natasha suddenly sat up in bed, wide-awake. She noticed that she was gasping, just like she had after her last dream about Alexei. Raising her hand to her face, she felt around for tears. She wasn't crying this time, though she still had the same feeling of dread.

She could hear Ivan talking in the living room, right outside her door. "Doctor, I told you not to come to my room again."

"I heard about what happened," Sergeyev said. "You _must_ know what that means for our operation."

"It was an unfortunate loss," Ivan said.

"Losing fifty million euros is more than 'unfortunate,'" Sergeyev said.

"I realize the significance," Ivan said. "But we've gone too far. There is no choice but to continue."

"You're damn right there isn't!" Sergeyev said. "We are in deep, Ivan. And I have put myself at risk by siding with you. This deal... it _has_ to go through. I'm going there in person to see that it does."

"You only came onboard about a week ago," Ivan said. "Do you even know who we're dealing with? How persuasive can you be, when we're fifty million short?"

"I have my connections, just like you," Sergeyev said. "There are things I can offer them, to make up for the difference."

Ivan hesitated for several seconds before responding. "Very well then. You can go with the men when the sale happens next week."

"There's one thing I'll need," Sergeyev said.

"You want _her_?" Ivan asked.

Natasha didn't like the sound of that at all. She could practically feel the two of them looking over at her bedroom door.

"Yes," Sergeyev said. "After all, our suppliers aren't known for their sense of humor. Lowering our payment by fifty million will seem like a bad joke. I'll need the best protection, just in case they react badly."

"She...she's not ready to go back out there," Ivan said. "You said so yourself. I'd feel a lot better if we had your new serum."

"I sent for the last dose in storage," Sergeyev said. "It won't be here in time, but we do have other options. Don't worry. I'll take care of her."

Natasha bent over and wrapped her arms around herself. _What aren't they telling me?_ she thought. She was scared about what it could be. She was scared of herself.

* * *

_July 22, 2004_

"It's been several days," Director Fury said as he followed Agent Coulson into the conference room. "I _hope_ you have something important for me."

"Oh, this is important, sir," Clint said.

"Lots of e-mails were recovered from Hussaini's laptop," Agent Hill said. "We found a number of vague messages from several free, anonymous accounts."

"Really mundane, uninteresting stuff," Clint said. "Which was interesting, since Hussaini was already on the run. I figured they must have been some kind of code."

"Long story short," Hill said, "something's going down in Chemnitz, Germany next week."

"A weapons sale?" Fury asked.

"We think so, sir," Coulson replied. "One of Hussaini's terrorist associates just sent out a new motivational message."

Hill picked up the printout in front of her and read the message out loud. "The infidels worship America, reveling in the idolization her power. But soon, we will strike to destroy America's blasphemous reign. Soon, we will witness the Twilight of the Idols."

"That's pretty dramatic of him," Fury said.

"Yes, but whatever they're planning, it's gonna cost at least fifty million," Clint said. "I think we should take this at least a little seriously."

"Agreed," Fury said. "You three put together a task force. You're heading back to Germany."

* * *

"Don't do it!" Natasha shouted. She was having the same dream again, but sped up and far more intense than before. "Please! Don't!" Once again, the masked man executed Alexei right in front of her. She saw the little red-haired girl being carried away. The child's cries were deafening. Flames rose up around Natasha and engulfed her body.

"Aaaaah!" Natasha suddenly found herself awake. _Have to get out!_ she thought. She tried to get up, but she couldn't. _Can't move! Why?_ Her arms and legs were tied down. She was helpless. _Get up! Get up!_

"Natasha!" she heard Uncle Ivan say.

She stopped shaking in her chair and looked up at him. "What...are you doing to me?"

Ivan took a deep breath and looked down. "Natasha, I wish we didn't have to do this." He shook his head before continuing. "But your condition worsened. We had to drug you and bring you here. This will be for your own good."

"What's wrong with me?!" she cried.

"You were having a bad reaction to the performance enhancers we've been giving you," he said. "I know you're confused right now. You're having dreams. Remembering things that never happened."

"I don't think I am," Natasha said.

Ivan walked up and put his hand on the side of her face. "It's okay. Dr. Sergeyev has designed a new treatment. We'll make things all better for you."

"Wait..." Natasha said.

"Don't you worry, my little Tsarina," Ivan said. "I'm doing this for _you_." He swept her hair back before leaning in for a kiss. Natasha cringed as she felt his mustache scraping against her cheek. She didn't know what to believe anymore.

Ivan pulled away several seconds later, but he turned her face and looked her straight in the eye. "No matter what happens, no matter what anyone says, always remember that I love you." He turned and motioned for someone off to the side. "Begin the procedure," he said before walking off.

Dr. Sergeyev and several assistants surrounded her. One of them pulled her sleeve up, while another one raised a syringe.

"No, wait," Natasha said as she was injected. Her hearing became muddled, and her vision began to blur.

"Hook her up," Sergeyev said.

"This isn't..." Natasha said, unable to finish her sentence. "Please...something's..." She felt a sharp pain in her head that made it impossible to think. It was unbearable, but it only lasted several seconds. Everything suddenly felt better after that.

_**To be continued in Chapter 6: Breaking Free**_


	6. Breaking Free

**Chapter 6**

**Breaking Free**

_July 26, 2004_

"That clears up our sector," Clint said as he drove down the street. "Think the others found anything yet?"

"I'm sure they'd let us know," Agent Coulson said. He sighed and looked out the window on his side of the car.

Clint looked out his own window as the traffic slowed in front of him. Chemnitz was an unusual place.

Located in Eastern Germany, the old industrial city had been on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain during the Cold War. The Communists had given it their typical makeover, with wide boulevards and rows of blocky, identical apartment buildings. They had gone so far as to rename the place Karl-Marx-Stadt, a name that had stuck for almost forty years. Somewhere in the city, a giant monument of Marx himself still stood.

The city had recovered since German reunification, despite high unemployment and a decline in population. Huge investments had been made in recent years, in an effort to transform the heart of the city into a vibrant shopping district. Clint could think of worse places to be driving through.

"Pull over, Clint," Coulson said.

"What?" Clint asked. He had usually been the one to alert the others of something. Nothing out of the ordinary had caught his attention though.

"Pull over!"

"Okay, okay," Clint said. Coulson wasn't easily excited. Whatever he had seen, he must have had good reason to stop for it.

"Don't worry about it," Coulson said. "I need to get something, that's all. Just sit tight for a minute." He rushed off into a hobby shop with a big display window.

"Hmm," Clint said. He didn't know SHIELD had a front in there, but of course, there were a lot of things they didn't bother telling him. He waited in his car, checking his watch every few minutes until his patience began to wane. _What the hell, Coulson_.

His eyes drifted to a family walking out from one of the nearby stores. The child was small, and the parents were quite young themselves. The two of them looked to be in their twenties. With several large boxes in his hands, the father slowly lumbered along next to his wife. The boxes were so big that he had to lean his head to the side just so he could see. He stumbled for several steps, before tripping on his own feet and dropping everything on the street.

The mother laughed, without any hint of annoyance or disdain on her face. Instead, she continued to smile as she bent down to pick things up with her husband. As the two of them stood back up, she gently stroked his face and kissed him on the cheek.

_So that's what it's like_, Clint thought. Those lovebirds were probably ten years younger than he was. Yet they had accomplished so much more in life than he had. _It's not too late_, he thought. _Is it?_

A knocking sound on the side window suddenly snapped him out of those thoughts. Coulson was standing outside with a small cardboard box of his own. Clint unlocked the door and started up the car.

"Alright, let's go," Coulson said as he got inside. He had a strange smile on his face.

Clint steered the car back onto the street. He noticed that Coulson was still carefully holding the box with both hands. "You gonna tell me what that is?" he asked. "Or is it above my clearance level?"

"No, it's nothing like that," Coulson said.

"Then what is it?" Clint asked.

Coulson's smile widened into a grin as he opened the box to reveal a red, white, and blue doll. "This is a 1962 Captain America action figure," he said. "Twentieth anniversary limited edition. Still in its original packaging."

Not many things were able to make Clint laugh out loud, but that one did. "Oh man, you've gotta be kidding me."

"This is a collector's item," Coulson said. "Got it for two thousand bucks."

"That's...quite a deal," Clint said.

"You think?" Coulson asked.

"Oh, yeah," Clint said as he tried not to smirk. "I like Cap too."

"Who doesn't?" Coulson said.

"Everyone needs something besides work," Clint said. His cell phone suddenly rang. It was Agent Hill. Clint sighed as he flipped open his phone and answered. "Barton here. What is it?"

"Agent Quartermain reported suspicious activity," Hill said. "Move your ass, Barton. I want you here ASAP." She hung up on him before he could say another word in response.

"Wow," Clint said.

Coulson closed his box and put it safely inside the glove compartment, before checking his gun. "Best not to keep her waiting," he said.

Clint turned onto a bigger street and accelerated toward their destination. "Hey, can I ask you something?" he asked.

"About what?"

"You recruited Maria, I mean Agent Hill, as well, didn't you?" Clint asked.

"I did…"

"What the deal with her, huh?" Clint asked. "I mean, I know she doesn't like me and all. But there's something else, I can tell. It's like she's got a stick up her ass twenty-four seven."

"Maria…Agent Hill takes her job very seriously," Coulson said.

"What was she like when before she came to SHIELD?" Clint asked.

"We really shouldn't be talking about this now."

"Come on Coulson," Clint said. "I won't tell."

Coulson gave him a reluctant look. "Agent Hill didn't have a happy childhood…Hey, take a left at the next intersection."

Clint took a quick glance at him before returning his attention to the road. "How so?"

"Her mother died giving birth to her," Coulson said. He stopped and sighed. "Her father wasn't a loving man. She thinks he blamed her for the death."

"Did he?" Clint asked.

"I don't know," Coulson said. "I just know he rode her real hard. She couldn't wait to enlist as soon as she was old enough. I think the Marine Corps was her way of breaking free."

"Didn't she say her father was a Marine?" Clint asked.

"Yeah..." Coulson said. "I'm not sure how to explain it. But she throws herself into her work. It's all she's got."

"That doesn't worry you?" Clint asked.

"No, not really," Coulson said. "It's the same for all of us, I think…Agent Hill is strong. She can manage."

"And do you, I mean, does Agent Hill ever want to have anything more than this?" Clint asked.

Coulson shook his head. "Some people long for what they've never had. Other people…get used to not having."

"Huh," Clint said. "Think I'm getting there myself..." He fixed his eyes on the road ahead as he tried not to get emotional. "Does SHIELD look for people like us, or do we all just turn out this way?"

* * *

"Come, my dear."

Natasha followed Dr. Sergeyev out of their car. She stood and watched as he greeted several of his associates, one of whom handed him a briefcase. Sergeyev had brought in several of his own people. They needed the extra muscle, just in case the deal went bad.

_It will go bad_, she thought. _That's why I'm here_. She was standing there dressed up to look like Sergeyev's arm candy, with a Micro Uzi hanging from a shoulder holster underneath her expensive summer coat. Her skirt concealed her PPK pistol and a small knife, each one holstered against a separate thigh. Someone had to make sure Sergeyev didn't get himself killed.

The men separated and returned to their vehicles. Natasha followed Sergeyev to one of the cars that his men had brought. The combined Russian convoy was now five cars strong.

Sergeyev got into the back seat next to Natasha. "We're ready," he told the driver. The car began to move, following behind one of the escort vehicles. Sergeyev turned to Natasha. "You look lovely," he told her for the third time that day. "Do you like the clothes I got you?"

"They will serve their purpose," Natasha said.

Sergeyev chuckled. "Of course they will. As will _you_."

Natasha didn't answer, for she was too busy going over all of the various scenarios she could be faced with during the mission. She felt driven to think about nothing but the mission, yet she strangely found it hard to focus.

"Do you like me, Natasha?" Sergeyev asked.

"I will protect you," she replied.

Sergeyev laughed again. "I can see my 'performance enhancers' are still in effect," he said. "Your Uncle Ivan wanted me to triple your usual dosage."

Natasha wished that he would just cut the chitchat. It was already so hard to think…

"I increased the amount, but not by that much. That's our little secret, okay?" He leaned over and put his arm around her shoulder.

_The mission_, she thought. _Must protect him_.

"Gave you just enough to get through today," he said. "When we're done, I hope we can have a talk. Just the two of us."

They continued for several minutes, driving through Chemnitz's old industrial district. Finally, they arrived in front of a warehouse with a pair of men standing watch in front of it. The warehouse door rolled up, allowing their vehicles to enter. Natasha saw three trucks and fifteen men inside. Most of them were armed with AK-47 assault rifles. The Albanians weren't taking any chances either.

Natasha watched as the Albanian at the center of the group stepped forward. _Pjeter Murati_, she remembered as she and the other Russians got out of their cars. She narrowed her eyes and looked over her new host. Murati was a tall man with rough features. He had dark, shortly trimmed hair and a goatee. With him dressed in an open suit jacket and a black undershirt, it was very easy to see the gold chains hanging from his neck.

That was just the way he had intended, of course. Murati was the biggest crime boss in Germany. He obviously wanted to showcase his wealth, while dressing casually enough to show others that he didn't care to dress up all the way.

_What are we doing here with these people?_ The thought had suddenly poked itself into her head. She quickly shook it off. _The mission. Must protect Sergeyev._ It frightened her that her mind was wandering like that, when it should've been impossible. _The mission, damn it_. She walked to Sergeyev's side and placed her hands on his arm.

"I'm sure you know who I am," Murati said. "But who are you?

"Dr. Pavel Sergeyev. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Murati laughed. "Well Doctor, before we get on with the deal, can I interest you with any of my other products?" He looked at his men, who began to unload several crates from the trucks. One of the crates was particularly large, requiring a forklift to bring it to the floor. "We have everything here. M16s, AKs, missiles, even the latest from Oscorp and Stark Industries."

The men opened the crates to reveal the weapons. Among the various items, Natasha noticed a strange bat-like board equipped with a rocket engine. Several men opened the largest crate, from which they pulled a motorcycle-like vehicle without any wheels.

"If you would like, we can provide a demonstration," Murati said.

_Don't even know what that is_, Natasha thought. _Who did he pay off or kill to get it?_ She shook her head to clear her thoughts. _Protect Sergeyev_. She began to observe the Albanians closely, noting their positions and facial expressions.

Sergeyev chuckled. "Quite a salesman, aren't you? Thanks for the offer, but we're not interested. We came for one thing."

"Very well then," Murati said.

_The mission..._Natasha thought. _Must get the weapons...which weapons?_ No one had bothered to tell her. _Shouldn't matter...why do I want to know?_ She lowered her head and squinted for a second. _The mission_, she thought again.

Sergeyev noticed her distress. "Everything okay, my dear?" he asked as he wrapped his arm around her waist.

Natasha felt him holding her tight. It was in his interest to make sure. His body pressed the hidden Uzi up against her side. _Be ready to use it_, she thought as she noticed Murati eyeing her as well.

* * *

"There they are," Coulson said.

Clint stopped his car on a hilltop overlooking the old industrial district. Agent Hill and twenty other agents were standing there, waiting for them.

"I called you at 1400," Agent Hill said as Clint stepped out of his car. "That was twenty minutes ago."

"Sorry I couldn't fly," Clint said.

Hill gave him a momentary sneer before getting back to business. "Five vehicles arrived just a couple minutes ago. They went through the door of that warehouse over there." She pointed to a warehouse a little more than one-hundred yards away. The door had been closed again to conceal whatever dirty deal was going down inside.

"We gonna hit them?" Agent Quartermain asked.

"That's what we came to do," Coulson said. "Get ready guys."

The agents went to their vans to get their gear. Clint watched them donning tactical armor and loading automatic M4A1 carbines.

"Where's _your_ weapon?" Hill asked.

"Right here," Clint said as he took a small carrying case from the trunk of his own car. He opened it and removed his collapsed recurve bow. Clint looked Hill in the eye as he popped open the bow right in front of her.

Hill's jaw dropped. "What? No, Barton. No! Someone get this guy a rifle."

"Uh uh," Clint said. He took out the handwritten note that Dr. Boothroyd had given him. "Doctor's orders," Clint said as he handed the note over to Hill.

Hill unfolded the paper and read it out loud. "Notice to all concerned: Agent Clint Barton has been given my full approval to field test the Variable Payload Precision Delivery System...signed Dr. Desmond Boothroyd...P.S. That's the bow." Hill crumpled the paper in her fist as she grunted in frustration.

She looked at Coulson for his thoughts on the matter. All he did was shrug. Hill turned back to Clint, giving him one of the scariest looks he had ever seen. "Screw things up for me and I will have your ass."

Clint smiled back at her as he reached into his shirt pocket. He pulled out his shades and put them on.

"Oh wow, Barton," Hill said. "You just won the award for biggest cliché of the year."

"Was that a joke I heard from you?" Clint asked as he turned toward the warehouse.

"What are you doing now?" Hill asked.

"My thing," Clint said. The glasses had a holographic augmented reality system, which quickly generated a variety of data such as his heading and coordinates. Brightly colored boxes highlighted people, as well as important objects and features in the area.

Clint reached for the tiny buttons on the frame of his glasses, careful to place his finger on the button for telescopic sight rather than the one for night vision. Several clicks were all it took for him to zoom in close to the warehouse.

Slowly turning his head, he scanned the building from one side to the other. Even with his high tech shades, he couldn't see much from outside closed doors. However, his glasses highlighted one of the windows on the eastern side of the building. One of its panes was broken. The glasses displayed its range at one-hundred and three yards. Behind the window, he saw countless boxes arranged on metal racks.

Clint clicked the buttons on his bow to select the proper arrowhead. Then he licked his finger and raised it to estimate the wind. The moisture helped him get a better feel for the gentle breeze passing through the area.

He turned on his bow's laser sight before knocking an arrow and drawing it back. With his glasses, he could see his tiny laser dot from more than a football field away. Clint pointed the laser at the warehouse wall, right below the broken pane.

The laser worked with an integrated rangefinder, which fed data directly into the targeting system in his glasses. Clint saw a holographic marker appear above the window, which he shifted his laser to so that he could arc his arrow into the target.

He made one last adjustment of his own to account for the wind, before he opened his hand to let the arrow fly. Several seconds later, it went straight through the hole before lodging itself into one of the boxes within.

"The hell was that?" one of the agents asked.

"Radio arrow," Clint replied. "It'll let me hear what they're doing inside." He focused as voices began to come through his earphone.

* * *

"Bring out the good stuff," Murati said.

Natasha watched as the Albanians pulled four more crates from their trucks. Her hand slid across her belly, stopping short of reaching underneath her coat. _Should save me half a second_, she thought.

"Would you believe I just found these in the wilderness?" Murati asked. "After all these all these years, they've aged like fine wine."

One of Sergeyev's men went up to the crates to inspect their contents. "Looks good," he said.

"If only we had found these first," Sergeyev said to Murati. "Then we wouldn't have to pay you at all."

Murati chuckled. "I've shown you the goods, Russian. Now show me the money."

Natasha could feel the tension spiking in the room. Everyone straightened up and turned their attention to Sergeyev and Murati.

"About the money..." Sergeyev said. "We don't have all of it right now."

"_What_ did you say?" Murati asked.

"Something unexpected happened," Sergeyev said. "We're fifty million short."

"Is this a joke?" Murati asked. "You think I'm stupid? You think it's funny to waste my time?!"

"Please, calm down," Sergeyev said. "Let's talk things out. We can work out another arrangement."

"No!" Murati screamed. "Nobody screws with me, you understand?!" Flipping open his jacket, he drew a pistol and pointed it straight at Sergeyev's head.

Natasha separated from Sergeyev as guns were raised all around the room. She pulled out her Uzi and took aim at Murati. He turned his head in her direction to give her a quick glance. She knew that she had caught him off guard.

"I don't think you understand," Sergeyev said as he drew his own pistol. "We're not leaving without those weapons."

Natasha's eyes shifted around the room. One of the Albanians on the far right was doing the same. He definitely shared her sense of nervousness. Maybe even more, given how heavily he was breathing. Natasha saw his rifle swinging toward the middle of the room...

She pulled her trigger, sending bullets through Murati's chest as the nervous Albanian began to shoot. The entire room erupted in gunfire. "Take cover!" Natasha shouted at Sergeyev as she squeezed off a couple more bursts. She grabbed Sergeyev and led him behind one of their cars.

Most of the car's body couldn't stop bullets, but its engine could. Natasha pulled Sergeyev down behind the front wheel, where she ducked as well. She waited for a break in the gunfire, before rising to fire again. Her bullets flew over one of the Albanians as he dived for cover.

_Damn it_, Natasha thought as she ducked back down. The Micro Uzi was such a clumsy weapon. She hated how fast it spent its ammo. Natasha strained to remain behind cover as she tore off her coat and kicked off her heals. She dropped the empty magazine from her weapon and loaded another. There was no way out but to kill.

* * *

"Crap," Clint said. "I hear gunshots."

"We _all_ hear gunshots!" Hill said.

"Maybe we should let them kill each other," one of the agents said. "Wait here to clean up the winner."

"I don't think so," Clint replied. "They got cars in there. We wait and they can get away."

"He's got a point," Coulson said. "Time to go in."

* * *

Natasha emptied the last of her Uzi's bullets into a foolish Albanian as he leaned out from his cover to grab a rifle on the floor.

"Kill them!" Sergeyev screamed. "Kill them!"

_Trying_, Natasha thought as she tossed her Uzi aside. She drew her pistol and tried to stand up. Bullets tore through the car around her as she rose. Natasha dropped back to the floor again. _Pinned down_, she thought. She gripped her pistol tightly as she heard the Albanians moving to encircle her. The mission was not going well. She had to do something, fast.

Something suddenly burst through the far wall of the warehouse.

"What's that?!" one of the Albanians screamed.

* * *

Clint kept his head down with the other agents as their van crashed through the warehouse wall. Judging by the sounds sent by radio arrow, they were entering a relatively safe part of the building. However, all it took was one stray bullet to ruin anyone's day.

Their vehicle screeched to a halt. "Everyone out!" Agent Hill shouted. "Now!"

Clint shoved his door open and dived out with an arrow already nocked on his bowstring. Rolling on the ground, he saw a pair of Albanians turning in his direction. Clint pulled back and released before even getting to his feet.

His arrow went straight into the first Albanian's chest. The man's partner turned and watched him fall with an astonished look on his face. An arrow was probably the last thing he would've expected to die from. Clint pulled another one from his quiver and sent it through the man's neck before he could come to his senses.

"Get to cover!" Hill yelled as she grabbed him by the arm. The other agents were still pouring out of their vans.

Bullets flew by as they raced toward several big wooden crates. Clint realized how little time had just passed. He didn't need his laser aimer, but it sure made things quick.

The last agent in their squad sprayed his M4 as he made it cover. Clint knew the enemy would focus on that poor kid. He hit the combo to bring up an explosive arrow, before rising to his feet.

A group of men near one of the trucks caught his attention. Clint sent his arrow into the boxes at the center of the crowd. It blew up, triggering several secondary explosions that sent all the men flying through the air in flames.

"Hot damn!" one of the agents shouted.

Clint turned to Hill as he crouched back down. "I meant to do that."

"Sure you did," she said. She suddenly looked down as Agent Coulson spoke through their earphones.

"We're pinned down over here," Coulson said. "The Russians are packing up four of the boxes. Stop them."

"On it," Hill said. She turned back to Clint and looked him in the eye.

Clint nodded in agreement. "Ready when you are."

"You two come with us," Hill said to the closest pair of agents. "The rest of you cover us!" She then raised her rifle and charged out toward the Russians. "Move! Move!"

Clint took out another explosive arrow as he ran out with her. Two of the Russians were lugging a box toward their cars. Hill fired, nailing one of them and sending the box slamming to the ground. She and Clint dived behind another pile of crates halfway to the Russians.

"I'll get the car," Clint said.

"Wait," Hill replied as she peeked through a crack between the crates. "Not all of them are still there." She turned back in Clint's direction. "They moved or something..." Hill's eyes suddenly widened. "Oh crap."

"Yah!" a woman suddenly screamed.

Clint felt her foot driving into his back. _God, she kicks like a mule_, he thought as he hit the ground face first. Two of the other agents screamed as they were attacked as well. Clint already knew who his female attacker was. He had had a feeling they would meet again.

"Damn it," Hill yelled as she fired several bursts. "They flanked us!"

Clint pushed himself up and stumbled to his feet. Still hurting from the kick, he clumsily swung around toward his attacker. He turned just in time to see her knocking out his fellow agent. Clint raised his bow and pulled back, stopping himself a split second before he was about to shoot. _Explosive at point-blank range_, he thought. _Nice one, Clint_.

The redheaded assassin turned and kicked him in the stomach. Clint lost his grip on the arrow as he fell back. It had gone off nearly straight up..."Incoming!" Clint managed to yell. He rolled to his feet and jumped as the arrow landed nearby. The explosion sent him slamming into a rack of boxes.

"You mean to do _that_ as well?" Hill asked as she pushed herself up. She was bruised and dirty. Her rifle had been knocked from her hands.

"Not quite," Clint said as he rubbed his head.

Hill was suddenly tackled by one of the Russians.

Clint bent down to retrieve his bow. The redhead was on him not a second later. _Here we go again_, he thought. Clint held his bow with both hands, using it as a makeshift staff. The woman kicked and punched, but she couldn't get through his weapon. Clint blocked one of her kicks before giving her a hard swing across the jaw.

"Ugh!" she yelled as she stumbled back.

Clint followed through with his swing, quickly tapping the buttons on his bow while he spun away to give himself some distance. As he completed his turning motion, Clint nocked a basic arrow and drew it back. The redhead was stunned and in his sights. He could kill her just by letting go...

* * *

_Get yourself together_, Natasha thought as she held her jaw in pain. She noticed a laser dot on her chest creeping up toward her face. Looking up, she saw her opponent standing there with an arrow drawn. By all rights, he should've already killed her.

The archer suddenly turned several inches to the left before shooting. Natasha turned as his arrow flew past her head. It struck one of Sergeyev's men in the back. The man screamed and dropped his pistol, falling down next to the archer's unconscious female comrade.

The_ fool_, Natasha thought as she turned toward the archer again. _Why would he do that?_ He had been in a dominant position just a moment ago. Now he was helpless, with no time to draw another arrow before she closed the gap between them.

His bow flew out of his hands as she kicked him into some nearby boxes. Natasha grabbed him by the head as he tried to get up. She punched him hard before swinging him back to the ground. Natasha drew her knife and jumped on top of him. She stabbed down at his neck, but the man grabbed her wrist to stop her blade short.

Natasha put her other hand on the knife handle and leaned in._ He knew this would happen_, she thought as she stared down at his resolute face. The archer kept fighting her with all of his remaining strength, despite how outmatched he was. _Just like_...she thought, unable to finish the thought. She hadn't pierced his skin yet, but her blade was already poking into his neck. _Just like...Alexei_. She told herself it didn't matter. _He's dead_, Natasha thought. A few millimeters more, and he'd be dead...

_He's fighting so hard_, Natasha thought. _His eyes...He __thinks he's right. Am I?_ "Aaah..." she moaned as her head began to throb. She squinted and felt her hands loosening from her knife. Everything became a blur.

_What am I doing?_ she thought. Things no longer made any sense.

_**To be continued in Chapter 7: Child at Prayer**_


	7. Child at Prayer

**Chapter 7**

**Child at Prayer**

_July 26, 2004_

_I'm dead_, Clint thought. He put on a brave face as he stared up at the assassin trying to lower a knife into his neck. _Can't give her that edge_. It such a show. He was scared out of his mind.

"Aaah," the assassin moaned. She squinted and lowered her head as her strength suddenly began to fade.

Clint didn't wait to see why. He wrenched her arms to the side and gave her a hard right hook, knocking her cleanly off his body.

Another Russian was already charging in to take her place. Clint rolled and grabbed his bow. Tossing the weapon up, he grabbed one end with both hands. With one quick stroke, he whipped it back down on top of the man's head.

Turning about, Clint tried to reassess the situation. There were people lying on the floor all around him. There was still a lot of gunfire too. He was lucky that someone hadn't shot him already.

Two of the Russian cars suddenly sped across the floor in different directions. One exited through the main door, which someone must have opened during the fight. The other plowed right through the SHIELD lines, leaving through the hole they had made in the wall.

"Damn it," Agent Hill said as she got up from the floor and drew her sidearm.

"Stop the leader!" Agent Coulson ordered through their earphones.

"Who?" Clint asked.

"Bald guy with the glasses!" Coulson said.

Clint looked past the crates in front of him at the remaining Russian cars. One of them had been shot into a useless wreck. The other two were riddled with bullet holes, but were still in working condition. A driver was in one of them, anxiously waiting as the leader and two others made it toward the vehicle.

"Go!" Hill ordered as she fired at someone behind them. "I'll cover your back!"

Clint leaned out and launched an arrow through the car's window, hitting the driver right in the chest.

The leader swung a briefcase in the air as he stopped in his tracks. His two guards kept cool though, turning toward Clint to lay down cover fire.

Clint dropped back down behind the crates, rolling as the wood splintered above him. The Russians were wasting a lot of bullets shooting at the same spot. Clint drew two arrows at once before jumping out from the side. He fired in mid-air, scoring simultaneous hits on both men. _Not just a carnival trick_, Clint thought. He nocked another arrow as he made his way toward the leader.

The man had run off in the opposite direction. He held an Uzi in one hand, while the other still carried his briefcase. Whatever was in there, it must have been important. The Russian jumped on top of a strange metal board before turning around to shoot.

Clint dropped his arrow as jumped to one side to avoid the bullets. _Damn_, he thought as he looked up from the floor.

The Russian pushed several buttons on the board. Metal clasps snapped up around his feet, locking him in place as the board lifted off of the floor. A rocket engine ignited, blasting the board and its new rider straight out of the warehouse.

"What the hell was that?" a nearby agent yelled.

"Oscorp rocket glider," Clint said, in disbelief at his own words. _Can't let him get away_, he thought as his eyes shifted to another strange vehicle on the floor. Clint slipped his bow around his body and ran for it, jumping on without any hesitation.

It was a Stark Industries Sky-Cycle. Clint remembered reading all about in _Popular Science_. With its gravitic reversion technology and repulsor thrusters, the vehicle could fly through the air with astounding speed. Its main drawback was its three million dollar price tag, which made it too costly for the Pentagon's taste. There was also the fact that no power source had yet been developed which could sustain the bike's systems for more than a few of minutes.

The Sky-Cycle activated with the push of a button. _Can't be too hard to fly_, Clint thought, trying to reassure himself as he aimed the bike at the same big hole in the wall. He couldn't waste any more time, if he wanted any chance of catching that Russian. Clint took off, racing through the violence of the warehouse and into the sky above.

* * *

"Ah!" Natasha cried. She gripped her head as she writhed on the floor. The pain inside her head was so intense that she hadn't even felt the man's punch. But as usual, it disappeared as soon as it had arrived.

Though her pain had subsided, Natasha was left feeling drained and disoriented. She crawled behind a crate while gunshots went off in every direction. Leaning against the wooden box, she took deep breaths as she tried to make sense of things. It took her the better part of a minute before she even remembered what she was doing there.

Tires screeched as two of the Russian cars escaped from the warehouse. The weapons, whatever they were, had been extracted. _Mission accomplished_, Natasha thought as she lied there like a weak, pathetic wreck. The thought didn't make her feel any better about herself.

"Get up!" one of Sergeyev's men yelled as he pulled her to her feet. He didn't even look at her before firing several shots. "Time to scatter."

The two of them ran toward separate cars. To her left, Natasha saw Sergeyev flying off in that strange glider. SHIELD agents were all around them. Every Russian who was still alive was running.

Natasha reached the nearest car. Its driver sat there motionless with an arrow lodged in his chest. A feeling of dread came over her. _No time to get scared_, she thought as she opened the door. She grabbed the corpse and dragged it from the car, doing her best to suppress her fear.

Something in the side mirror caught her eye. She turned around, raising the body to protect herself as a female SHIELD agent opened fire. Natasha felt sick as the body shook from the bullets.

The gunfire ended quickly, as the agent stopped to reload her pistol. Natasha dropped the body and jumped into the car. She floored the gas pedal and swerved toward the open main door, as bullets smashed through her rear window.

* * *

Clint raised his bow as he came within range of the Russian. _Almost there_, he thought. He'd have to wing this shot. He had never trained for such a situation, and the Sky-Cycle wasn't exactly a stable firing platform...

The Russian suddenly turned around to unleash a burst from his Uzi.

"Whoa!" Clint yelled as he misfired and fell back in his seat. Several rounds had torn up the front of his bike. A few inches over and they would've hit him instead. His vehicle was fast and cool, but it gave him almost no protection. Another reason why the military had had the good sense to pass on it.

_Only an idiot would fly this thing_, Clint thought as he made a sharp turn between two very close buildings. The Russian was smart. While his Oscorp glider was slower, it was smaller and much more maneuverable than Clint's bike. The Russian was flying around everything in a clear attempt to run him into an obstacle.

_Let's see how you like this_, Clint thought. He pulled the nose of his bike up to climb above the dangers of the surrounding buildings. Combat maneuvers had become familiar to him, after several months of simulator training in the hopes of flying Quinjet one day. Clint knew that speed and thrust beat maneuverability, so long as the pilot took proper advantage of them. With more thrust, he could climb above his opponent and pounce from above.

Clicking the buttons on his bow as he peered down at his enemy, Clint equipped a grappling hook arrow. After nocking the arrow, he reached into a pouch on his belt to remove a special zip line attachment.

The attachment connected to the back of an arrow, and used compressed gas to fire a grappling hook of its own in the opposite direction. Combined with a grappling arrowhead, it could connect two surfaces with a single continuous line. Normally, a pulley attachment would then be fixed to the bow, allowing Clint to slide across the length of the cable.

He had a different idea in mind though. After connecting the zip line attachment, Clint fired the rear hook down into his own bike. He then took aim at the Russian's glider. With his bike's greater mass and thrust, he could win any tug of war with it. He'd fly back to the warehouse, hauling the glider and the screaming Russian with him.

The Sky-Cycle suddenly shook. "Aw crap," Clint said as his repulsors began to fail. They sputtered intermittently, before they stopped altogether. The bike fell from the sky like a rock.

With just seconds to act, Clint aimed and fired his grappling hook into the Russian's glider. He then looked down at the fast-approaching roof of a nearby factory. A dozen feet was as close as he was going to get. Clint jumped from his bike, rolling on the roof to soften his impact.

It still hurt like hell, but at least he didn't break anything. _I think_, Clint thought as he held his shoulder and looked out beyond the roof. His Sky-Cycle crashed into the pavement below, but it managed to stay intact. There probably wasn't any fuel left to blow up.

The Russian continued to fly, extending the cable behind him until it went taut. His glider didn't have a chance of lifting the bike or breaking the cable. Clint hadn't expected it to tear itself apart though. The entire rear of the glider ripped away, sending the Russian into a downward spiral.

Clint looked away for a second as the man hit the ground. He had wanted to take the Russian alive. Now, he just hoped that the man had been given a quick death. With his head lowered in disappointment, Clint slowly moved his aching body to the edge of the roof. From there, he leaped down onto a fire escape, using it to make his way to the ground.

Blood and debris littered the area around the Russian. To Clint's dismay, the man was still alive. Clint rushed over to the broken body of his enemy.

"Don't bother," the man said as he raised one hand to wave him away. A strange smile appeared on the Russian's face as he began to giggle. "Not bad, huh? Bet you thought...I was a helpless...scientist." He stopped to cough up some blood. "I'll have you know...that I am ex-KGB."

Clint just nodded in response. He felt sick. Sickened by the sight of his handiwork, as well as the thought of another mission defined by death.

"The name's Sergeyev..." the Russian said, forcing his words out between gasps. "Remember when you tell...this story." He giggled again, though his laughter came out far weaker this time.

Clint's eyes drifted toward Sergeyev's briefcase, which had landed nearby. He walked over and picked it up, as a SHIELD van arrived at the scene. Coulson, Hill, and several others stepped out from the vehicle.

"Damn Barton," a young agent said, "You're regular killing machine."

"Thanks," Clint dryly replied as he pulled several folders from the briefcase. He opened them and skimmed through. What he saw was stunning.

Letters ordering the deaths of two Soviet dissidents, the burning of their apartment, and the seizure of their three-year old daughter. Notes detailing the girl's suitability for an experimental spy program. Records of memories that had been implanted and suppressed in her mind throughout the years. An unexpected romance and the cover up that had put it to an end. Mind-altering drugs that had brought out the worst in her, and the ruthless missions that she had carried out while under their influence.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Sergeyev said.

"You bastards," Clint said, as he turned to stare down at the Russian. His sympathy for the dying man had vanished. "She was just a kid."

"What is it?" Coulson asked.

"They ruined her life," Clint said. "Turned her into a killer."

Sergeyev laughed and wheezed before talking again. "I would have...set her free. Tried...to turn her...against...'Uncle Ivan.' So close...to taking...his place."

"Ivan Petrovitch?" Agent Hill asked. She bent down and grabbed Sergeyev by the collar. "What's he up to? Tell us!"

Sergeyev's head limply shook as she pulled him up to her face. "For me to know...and you...to find..." He stopped talking in mid-sentence.

Hill dropped him back on the ground. "Well, there goes our only lead."

"No one else alive, huh?" Clint asked.

"Afraid not," Coulson said. He looked Clint in the eye and shook his head with a solemn look on his face. "They either escaped or died trying."

"And the girl?" Clint asked.

"She's gone," Hill replied. The blunt answer made Clint lower his head and feel sick again. He was glad when Hill continued several seconds later. "Put a bunch of bullets in her car, but she still got away."

Clint looked up, as he suddenly felt something come alive within himself. "What? We have to save her. It's not too late..."

"Save her?" Hill asked with a look of disgust on her face. "That poor girl killed five SHIELD agents."

"That wasn't her," Clint said. He didn't know why he had become so eager to defend her all of a sudden. He just knew that he had to. "She was brainwashed. They _made_ her do it."

"When did you grow such bleeding heart?" Hill asked. "We find this girl and we take her out."

"That's up to Director Fury," Coulson said.

"Director Fury will think the same way," Hill said as she raised her voice.

"I know I do!" another agent said.

Clint shook his head and turned away as more agents spoke up in agreement.

* * *

Natasha opened the door of her car and stepped out into the city of Dresden. She was impressed that the vehicle had made it this far, after taking so many shots. There was no hiding the bullet holes and broken windows from the people on the street, who quickly began to point and talk. _Can't stay around_, Natasha thought. She pushed past several people, hoping to disappear before everyone could connect her to the scene.

_Keep moving_, she thought as she made her way down the crowded street. She glanced around without turning her head, wary of any threats. In her current situation, _anyone_ was a potential threat. She wasn't just worried about SHIELD, because there was the police as well. Being stopped and questioned was not an option. Even a curious or concerned civilian could get her into trouble.

She walked quickly but inconspicuously. _No one's following me_, she thought. At least no one that she could hear. Natasha didn't allow the thought to lower her guard. She wouldn't be safe until she got home. Home was too far away though. She would have to settle for some place closer.

The city didn't have a subway, but it did have a system of trams that carried people through the streets. Natasha reached a stop and paid for a ride that would take her across the city. After stepping into a crowded tramcar, she took a moment to observe the other passengers. None of them looked remotely like an agent. Natasha took a seat and looked out the window, breathing a sigh of relief for the first time since she had escaped from the bloodbath inside the warehouse.

Dresden was the state capital, and a much more beautiful place than Chemnitz was. The city was built around the picturesque Elbe River, and it contained an unusually high proportion of parks and forest areas. Its buildings were a lovely mix of the historic and the modern, doing justice to the city's status as a cultural and economic center.

There were no signs of the World War II firebombing that had turned the place into a burnt-out graveyard. _How did they come back from that?_ Natasha thought. Fire seemed so final and all consuming to her. She knew about all of the work that had been done to rebuild the city, so that it was better than ever before. She just found it hard to believe that such a thing could be done.

* * *

The stairs of the old apartment building creaked as Natasha made her way up. There was the Dresden that people read about in travel guides, and then there was this neighborhood.

The city's recovery had been remarkable, but incomplete in some ways. People tended to pay attention to glamour and beauty, even if those attributes existed only on the surface. They weren't as aware of the dirty, ugly things that could exist beneath. Dresden was doing relatively well, but like other places in Eastern Germany, it was still afflicted with poverty and unemployment.

Department X's safe house was a small apartment on the fourth floor. There was nothing special about it. The room had been chosen simply because it was cheap and unworthy of attention. It was just one of many places for agents to hide and rest, if they ever found themselves in trouble and unable to return home.

Reaching the fourth floor, Natasha turned and looked down the hall for her apartment, which was number forty-six. It was halfway down the hall. A young girl and a woman with a bag of groceries were standing nearby, outside apartment forty-seven.

Natasha reached into her pocket to dig for her key. _Don't attract attention_,she thought to herself. She kept her head down and didn't say a word as she walked over to her room. As she reached to unlock her door, she heard the girl whispering something. Natasha was willing to ignore it. But then, in the corner of her eye, she saw the girl pointing at her.

"Is anything wrong?" Natasha asked in German. Though she was fluent in multiple languages, German wasn't one of them. She knew that she had an accent, and that she wouldn't be able to carry out a lengthy conversation. It was a rare situation for her, one that she couldn't easily charm her way through.

"Nothing," the mother replied in her native tongue, before giving Natasha a bright smile. "My daughter was excited to finally see our neighbor. She thinks you're very pretty."

"Thank you!" Natasha said. She smiled and leaned down toward the girl. "You're also pretty."

"Thanks," the girl said in English. "You're not German. I can tell by your accent. Don't worry, I learned English in school."

Natasha giggled as she turned toward the mother. "Oh wow, she's smart too."

The mother replied with an awkward smile. She didn't seem to know English quite as well as her daughter did.

Natasha turned back to the girl. "Well, it was very nice to meet you..."

"Heidi," the girl said.

"Okay, Heidi. You can call me Natasha." She stood up and waved good-bye to the girl and her mother. "Guess I'll see you around." She and the mother each opened their doors.

"I'm hungry!" a German man screamed from inside the woman's room. "Where were you?!"

The mother tensed up for a moment, before turning to Natasha and giving her a small nod. She then took her Heidi's hand and led her inside the apartment.

Natasha walked into her own room with a bewildered look on her face. Something was clearly wrong with the situation next door. She hoped that Heidi and her mother would be okay. _What's it to you?_ she thought. It was strange that she felt so concerned for strangers whom she had just met.

"Just here for the mission," she whispered. What she had said outside hadn't just been an act though. She had actually, genuinely talked to them. _Why did I give her my real name?_ Natasha thought. Unsure of the reason, she just shook her head in an attempt to straighten herself out. It was as if she didn't know what to do, now that she was alone without any clear objective to strive toward.

She sighed as she proceeded to inspect her apartment. The kitchen cabinets contained a variety of canned foods - there were soups, some beef and vegetables, and lots and lots of beans. Someone from Department X had stopped by every few months to stock the place with food. There was enough there to last more than a week. She could conceivably stay in the apartment the entire time, without risking exposure by going outside to shop for more food.

There were several changes of clothes in the drawers, as well as a cap and a couple of wigs. Natasha tried on the blonde and brunette wigs in front of a mirror. It was amazing how different someone could look just by changing one or two features.

Finally, there were the "slicks." Spies who truly wanted to protect something wouldn't put it in a safe. Safes could keep out civilians and amateurs, but professional agents found them easy enough to crack. Smart spies would instead conceal their valuables inside of slicks - secret holes that they would cut into their walls and furniture. Slicks were easy to get to, but hard to find. Fortunately, Natasha already knew where all of them were.

She went around the room, gathering up everything that had been left for her. There was a total of two thousand euros there, spread out among various denominations.

A PPK pistol and two six-round magazines had been inserted into the sofa. _Good_, Natasha thought as she loaded the pistol before placing it in her thigh holster. She had lost her previous gun in the warehouse, something that had left her feeling uncomfortably vulnerable until now.

The other hidden compartments yielded Semtex plastic explosives, thermite incendiaries, and a small laptop computer. She had not only been given the tools to survive, but to carry out another hit if need be.

Natasha turned the computer on to check for any e-mails that she might have been sent. Inside one of her free accounts, she found orders dressed up to look like a bland and harmless message.

"Don't bring them home," the e-mail said. "Not ready to entertain guests."

Those vague words were all that the e-mail contained, but Natasha got the message quite clearly. There was nothing more for her to do. Uncle Ivan had other concerns, and he only wanted her and SHIELD to stay out of his way for the time being.

* * *

Clint went through the pockets of a dead Russian, looking for anything that could help. He found nothing but cigarettes, bullets, and lint. He sighed and looked around the warehouse. Bodies just like it were all over the floor. "Wonder what the Kremlin will think about this," he said.

Agent Quartermain looked up from the body of an Albanian gangster. "Don't know if this op was even sanctioned. They'll disavow everything either way."

"Hmm," Clint said as walked over to the next body. _Of course they will_, he thought. In this business, loyalty seemed to be a matter of convenience.

Coulson and Hill suddenly came over. "Dresden police just found an abandoned car," Coulson said. "Said it was full of bullet holes. Witnesses described a young redhead leaving the scene in a hurry."

"So we're going to Dresden then?" Clint asked.

"That's right," Hill said. "Director Fury just issued a kill or capture order on her."

"It'd do more good to take her alive," Clint said.

"Only if she'll let us take her," Hill replied.

* * *

_July 31, 2004_

Natasha set her bowl of beans on the kitchen table and pushed it away from her. There were still several spoonfuls left, but she had had enough for the time being. She'd eat the rest later. Those lousy canned beans were all that she had left.

_Five days_, she thought. Five days and still no word from Uncle Ivan. It was maddening to sit in that room alone with nothing to do. Natasha had exercised to keep herself sane. But even that hadn't been very fulfilling. The room was bare, and it lacked the equipment that she needed for a full and proper workout.

Someone was shouting and cursing in German. "Stupid girl!" screamed the man next door. "You're so stupid!"

The words sent a chill down Natasha's spine. She vaguely remembered hearing something just like that. _Uncle Ivan's not this bad_, she tried to tell herself. Yes, his temper occasionally got to him. _But he's looking out for me_, she thought. _Isn't he?_ Natasha got another headache. She could barely understand why she felt the way she did. The last few weeks seemed like such a blur.

She heard Heidi crying, but she couldn't do anything about it. It wasn't her place to get involved in these domestic problems. Especially not when she had a cover to maintain. She sighed as she looked down at her laptop monitor.

Against her better judgment, she had been reading about her past victims again. Aliya Drakov had a MySpace page with photos of her and her friends. She had only been twenty-four when she had died.

_Give me something_, Natasha thought. Aliya as a criminal and a traitor, she remembered, not the smiling young woman that she saw in those pictures. She had once been so sure of that. But there was nothing online - no news articles, government reports, or even suspicious comments on MySpace - to suggest that Aliya had ever been involved in anything shady.

"Damn it!" yelled the man next door. "Always making trouble!"

Natasha tried to ignore the disturbance again, but she had nowhere to turn to. She didn't like where her online research was leading. And Aliya wasn't even the worst thing on her list...She didn't dare to search for the hospital in São Paulo that she had once snuck a package into. _No_, Natasha thought. She didn't want to remember that incident. Most of the time, she hadn't.

Her mission had been to get the box inside, and Natasha hadn't cared to ask any questions. Only later did she learn that it was a firebomb. Uncle Ivan told her that she had killed a separatist war criminal. The other victims in that hospital wing had been collateral damage. They had died screaming in a terrible fire, and she was the reason why. If there was a hell, it surely reserved a spot for her.

Glass shattered in the room next door. The guy was still at it, carrying on like a madman.

_I've done so much wrong_, Natasha thought as she tightened her fist. She could feel the guilt eating away at her from the inside. She wanted to make it go away, but she didn't know if she could suppress it again. It would always be a part of her...

"Don't talk back to me!" the man shouted. Something slammed against the wall. Heidi screamed out in pain.

_No more_, Natasha thought as she suddenly got up from her seat. She stopped thinking about herself in an instant. All of her guilt and self-pity had been replaced by rage. Natasha ran out into the hallway and kicked down the door to the next apartment.

The door flew open, revealing a room in shambles. Chairs had been thrown and smashed apart. Broken beer bottles littered the floor. A hole had been punched in the wall. And in the corner, Heidi lied bruised and crying at the feet of a large, sloppy man.

"What the hell?!" the man yelled.

Natasha didn't give him as much as a single word. She charged in to seize the man's arm and pull him away from Heidi. Unprepared for her quickness, the man was unable to resist. As he stumbled through her swing, Natasha rotated her body to follow through with a kick. Her leg slammed hard into his side, sending him crashing into the coffee table.

The table gave way under his considerable weight. "Damn you..." he said as he pushed himself up.

Giving him no time to recover, Natasha ran in to punch him in the gut. As the man doubled over, she punched him again in the face to send him spinning to the floor. With the brute lying face down on the floor, Natasha stepped over to grab him by the arm. She twisted his wrist as she bent the arm back, before planting her knee on his shoulder. The man whimpered as she continued to apply pressure.

"I'll break your arm," Natasha finally said to him. A part of her really wanted to do that. Seething, she pulled back even harder.

She suddenly noticed Heidi standing in front of them, staring. The girl really didn't need to see that. Natasha loosened her grip on the man, before bending down to whisper in his ear. "Get out. Don't you _ever_ hit her again." She picked the man up and dragged him into hallway, where she pushed him toward the stairs. "Get out!" she said again. The man gave her a fearful look before trudging away in defeat.

Natasha went back into the apartment. "Are you okay?" she asked. Heidi nodded her head as she sobbed. Natasha looked around the apartment, noticing for the first time that the girl's mother wasn't there. "Why was your father hitting you?"

"Dirk isn't my father," Heidi said. "My mom said she liked him. But he yells and gets mad a lot. He got mad this time when I spilled something."

"I'm so sorry," Natasha said. She crouched down to give the girl a hug. As she held Heidi in her arms, she noticed that she was misty-eyed. Natasha felt strange again. Not only for getting emotional, but also for connecting like this to another person. She didn't exactly train for something like this. "Be strong," Natasha said. "Life is a struggle." Platitudes like that were all she could think to say.

"Mom tells me to pray a lot," Heidi said. "She says things can get better. That life can change if I mean it and really want it to."

"I don't think -" Natasha said, stopping herself short so as not to dash the child's hopes. _I don't think so_, she thought to herself. She had seen enough of life to make her a pessimist.

"You don't what?" Heidi asked.

"I don't think you should worry so much," Natasha said. She put her hands on Heidi's shoulders as she pulled away to look her in the eye. "Wanna stay at my place until your mom gets back from work?"

"Okay," Heidi said.

"Come on, let's go," Natasha said. She took the girl by the hand and led her out the door. "You can have something to eat if you want."

* * *

_August 2, 2004_

Natasha reached into her handbag to conceal her thermite and Semtex beneath its false bottom. _Still no word from Uncle Ivan_, she thought. The evening had turned to night while she had sat there slowly rearranging her equipment yet again.

Someone suddenly twisted her doorknob back and forth. Startled, Natasha grabbed her pistol and took aim at the door.

"Hey Natasha, it's me. Heidi."

Natasha sighed in relief and stuck her pistol back into her thigh holster. She covered her handbag with her blanket and some clothes, before walking over to let Heidi in. "What is it?" Natasha asked.

"Mom's working late again," Heidi said. "She forgot to go shopping. There's nothing to eat."

"Want some more beans?" Natasha asked.

"Um...can we have anything else?" Heidi asked. She had tried to be polite, but there was no hiding her disgust.

_Can't exactly blame her_, Natasha thought as she glanced out the window. She hadn't left the apartment building since she had arrived. It really wasn't smart for her to go outside, against orders and with SHIELD possibly still after her. But Heidi had such a longing look in her eyes, and the girl had put up with so much already. A quick trip to the grocery store down the block couldn't hurt. "Alright," Natasha said as she went to grab some money. "Let's see what they have outside."

* * *

"Ah, that's good," Clint said as he set his beer back down on the bar counter. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, before closing his eyes and leaning back for several seconds. It had been one very long day.

_She's probably gone_, Clint thought. After finding the Black Widow's car and interviewing several witnesses, SHIELD's trail had quickly gone cold. An investigation into the local mob had turned up previous dealings with Russians operating inside the city, which was the only reason why SHIELD was still there. But after an entire week, there didn't seem to be any hope of finding the elusive Natasha Romanoff.

Clint opened his eyes again and looked out the window. His mouth dropped open as he suddenly saw her, casually walking by on the street. "Keep the change," Clint said to the bartender as he dropped five euros on the counter. He ran out the door, slowing down only when he got outside to avoid attracting attention.

The Black Widow was right down the street, about thirty feet away. She wasn't hard to see, given the bag of groceries in her arms, and the little girl tagging along right beside her.

Clint reached for his earphone as he followed behind. "Pick up, Coulson. I've found her."

_**To be continued in Chapter 8: The Call**_


	8. The Call

**Chapter 8**

**The Call**

_August 2, 2004_

"What's she doing now?" Agent Hill asked.

"She's still cooking," Clint replied. The harmless nature of her activity was not lost on him.

He had been crouching by the window for the last few minutes, watching Natasha Romanoff from across the street with his telescopic shades. She had done nothing out of the ordinary in that span of time, which was perhaps the most unusual thing of all. It certainly didn't meet the expectations of Hill, Coulson, or any of the other SHIELD agents gathered there inside the dark motel room with him.

"See anyone else in there?" Hill asked.

"No," Clint replied. "Just her and the girl."

Hill spoke into her radio. "Hill to Quartermain. No new hostiles sighted. The number stands at one. Potentially two."

"Affirmative," Clint heard Quartermain say. Agent Quartermain was currently on the roof of the apartment building. He and his Alpha Team would rappel down the building and enter Romanoff's apartment through the window. Meanwhile, a second assault team would storm up the stairs and attack through the door. Caught in their pincer, Natasha would have no choice but to surrender.

"Remember not to underestimate the girl," Hill said. "_Either_ of them. Hill out."

Bothered by her statements, Clint turned away from the window to look at her. "Come on, you really think they start that young?"

"The Black Widow did," Hill replied.

Clint sighed as he looked out the window again. "She has a name, you know."

"Don't care what her name is," Agent Lopez said, as he and his partner Agent Carter walked up to join the conversation.

"After tonight, she's dead," Carter said.

Hearing those words made Clint feel particularly uneasy about spying on Natasha. He remembered that Carter and Lopez had been good friends with Agent Blair, one of the men whom Natasha had killed during the Berlin mission. The two of them had been talking about getting even ever since.

"Let us in there," Carter said to Hill. "We'll take care of her."

"I don't trust you two enough to get this done," Hill said. "Not after that crap you pulled last time." She motioned toward the door with her head. "Go outside. You've got perimeter duty."

"Fine," Lopez said before he and Carter left the room.

Hill was already on her radio, talking to another agent. "You get through to the police yet? I don't want any interference during the raid."

"The police are onboard," the agent replied.

"Good," Hill said. She lowered her radio and looked around the room, searching for something else to do.

Clint turned to Agent Coulson, who had been calmly observing things the whole time with his arms folded behind his back. "Huh, almost forgot you were here."

"I think Agent Hill's got everything under control." He looked around the room one last time before heading for the door. "I'm going outside. Gonna see how the perimeter's doing."

"Careful Coulson," Clint said. "You keep this up and she'll have your job in a few years."

Coulson smiled. "She'll have _Fury's_ job in a few years."

* * *

Natasha scooped the potatoes and bratwurst out of her skillet and onto two separate plates. "Dinner's ready!" she said as she brought the plates over to the kitchen table.

"Finally!" Heidi said. She got up from the couch and ran straight for the food.

"Enjoy," Natasha said as she poured two glasses of juice.

Heidi was already digging into her meal. She took her glass from Natasha and used it to wash down a mouthful of food, before going right back to her plate. Within another minute, she had finished her sausage and devoured half of her potatoes.

"Eat up," Natasha said. "There's more in the pan."

The girl suddenly stopped and looked up at her.

"Is something wrong?" Natasha asked.

"I..." Heidi said, looking quite emotional as she paused in mid-sentence. "I'm glad I met you, Natasha."

Natasha turned away as she felt herself almost tearing up. Though she had lived in the Red Room with more than two-dozen other girls, she had never known what it was like to have a friend or sister. Competition between the girls there was so vicious. They frequently fought and climbed over one another, fighting for status as well as for Uncle Ivan's affections. Although Natasha had found success in those power struggles, the top of her class had proven to be a very lonely place.

"Thanks," Natasha said. "That means a lot to me."

"I wish my mom was more like you," Heidi said. "She's always working. I barely see her anymore."

"That's not very fair to her," Natasha said. "I'm sure your mom loves you. She's trying her best."

"What's your mom like?"

"I never knew my mother," Natasha said. She stopped and sighed before continuing. "Growing up, I used to wish for one all the time though. I'd see these families on TV and wonder why I couldn't have one." _She doesn't need to hear about this_, Natasha thought, despite how much she wanted to continue. "But after a while, I got used to it...Be nice to your mom okay? It's good that you still have her."

"Okay," Heidi said. "I will."

The two of them were suddenly shaken by a series of hard knocks on the door of Heidi's apartment. "Let me in, Martina!" Dirk shouted. "Take me back! I can't stay anywhere else!" Dirk was slurring his words, which were hard to make out despite how loudly he was yelling. "Let me in, damn it!"

_You drunken fool_, Natasha thought. Dirk should have gotten the hint after their first encounter. But alcohol was a proven source of courage, as well as stupidity.

"Do something, Natasha," Heidi said as she suddenly turned back to her. The girl had a look of pure terror in her eyes. "Please. I don't want him back."

"Stay right here," Natasha said. She got up from her seat and tightened her fist as she made her way to the door. _Don't go crazy on him_, she thought. She unlocked the door and yanked it open. _Just do enough to_ -

Suddenly, something smashed through the window behind her. A loud explosion came before she could even turn around. "Ah!" Natasha cried as she was struck by the deafening blast. Clutching her ears in pain, she stumbled forward and collapsed on the floor.

She heard nothing but a high-pitched ringing, and her head felt as if it were splitting apart. Still, she had been lucky. The flashbang had exploded several meters behind her, and she had been spared the sight of its white-hot light.

_Heidi!_ Natasha thought. The girl had probably taken the full effect of it. Working on pure instinct, Natasha rolled herself out the door. The flash grenade's effects would last for several more seconds. She needed to give herself as much distance from her enemies as she could get. It was her only chance, if she were to save Heidi as well as herself.

She didn't get very far at all. Something slammed into her forehead as she got to her feet, before her head had even stopped spinning. Looking up, she saw that it was a rifle butt. Three or four men dressed in black were in the hallway, swarming over her. They could've killed her already, had they wanted to. But even if they had other plans for her, they seemed intent on getting their shots in.

"Oh God, I'm on fire!" someone yelled from inside her apartment.

"The whole place is!" another man screamed.

The words scared her more than her attackers' blows did. Natasha tried to get back into the apartment, but she couldn't. The men kicked and struck her again and again, not allowing her to get up from the floor.

"Aaaaah!" Heidi cried.

"You hit the kid?" one of the men asked.

"Not taking any chances!" another one yelled.

_What do they want with her?_ Natasha thought. She didn't know, but she could guess. With her face barely above the floor, she turned and looked at her doorway. A brilliant light emanated from her room, under a thick cloud of smoke. _It can't be_, Natasha thought. Her dream - that awful, unforgettable dream - was becoming a reality.

_Not like this!_ she thought as she willed herself to action. Swinging her legs, she managed to sweep her nearest attacker. Natasha spun to her feet, but the next man rushed in and tackled her.

He pinned her against the wall, with his rifle pushed up across her neck. Natasha knew better than to waste time struggling to remove it. She went straight for a palm strike instead. The man's head rocked back as she made contact with his chin. He fell away, but Natasha pulled him right back in for a knee to the groin. As the man howled in pain, she turned and threw him headfirst into the wall.

The alarm went off. Dozens of people poured out of their rooms, all rushing toward the stairs at either end of the hallway.

Natasha delivered a back kick to stop another attacker from taking her from behind. As she did so, she saw Dirk standing nearby, frozen in fear. Their eye contact seemed to instill some sense into him. The drunkard turned and fled like everyone else. Natasha let him run. She had far bigger problems to deal with.

* * *

Clint watched the bed inside the apartment erupt in flames, just as Agent Quartermain's team swung through the window.

"What in God's name is that?!" Hill asked as she lowered her binoculars.

"Thermite," Clint answered. He was well aware of its properties, after using that stuff so many times in the field. The powdered mixture of iron oxide and aluminum could sustain a fire all on its own. Its flames could not be suffocated or put out with water. Once ignited, thermite would keep going until it burned itself out, spewing four-thousand degree heat and molten metal all the way to its end.

The one thing that made thermite safe to carry was the intense heat required to get it started. A regular fire wasn't enough. Something far hotter was needed...such as a flashbang exploding right on top of it.

One of the agents in the room caught fire, before panicking and falling to the floor. Clint was glad that he couldn't hear the man's screams. As several agents ran after Natasha, others moved to help their teammate tear off his flaming jacket. Smoke quickly obscured the room from Clint's sight.

"Alpha Team!" Hill yelled into her radio. "Report in!"

"The kid's down," Quartermain replied. "Men outside...she's fighting back! We can't restrain her! Damn it, the whole place is on fire!"

Hill grunted as she lowered her radio, before pushing another button to contact the second assault team. "Bravo Team! Get up those stairs already!"

"We're trying!" its squad leader said. "There's a lot of people in way!"

A young agent excitedly went up to Hill. "We need to stop playing around!" he cried. He stopped and straightened up as Hill turned to look at him. "It, it's your call."

A hardened look came upon Hill's face as she raised her radio again. "Hill to all points. You are cleared to use lethal force. Do not apprehend the target. I say again, _do not_ apprehend the target!"

_Holy crap_, Clint thought as he went to get his bow and quiver. He quickly equipped a grappling arrow with a zip-line attachment, before returning to the window. _No way I'm sliding into that_, he thought. He turned toward the next window over, before firing his rear hook toward the ceiling of his own room.

"Jesus!" Hill yelled, jumping back as the hook came within a foot of hitting her. She turned and gave Clint angry glare. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"Something stupid," Clint replied, right before launching his arrow.

"Don't do it, Barton!" Hill screamed as he leaped outside.

The cool night air rushed into his face as he accelerated down the length of the cable. Straining to hold on to his bow, Clint waited until he was several feet from the window before kicking his legs forward. He saw the glass shatter in front of him, a moment before he came to a hard landing on the floor within.

Clint pushed himself up and looked around the room on instinct. There was nobody there, but he noticed the hole in the wall and all the broken furniture. The people who lived there might have been nuts, but they had the good sense not to be there with the fire and the fighting going on just next door. _Not like me_, Clint thought as he ran for the door.

He had just stepped outside when he saw Natasha pointing a pistol in his direction. She fired before he could react. Luckily, she hadn't been aiming at him, but at the agents coming up the stairs instead. The men tumbled back down as her shots struck the wall in front of them.

_Yeah_, Clint thought to himself. _Take your eyes off the gun_. He jumped back into the room as several bullets ripped into door right next to him. Clint nocked an arrow and drew it back before leaping into the hall again. Whatever his reason was for going in, he wasn't going to just lie down and die without a fight.

Natasha, however, was no longer concerned with him. Nor did she seem very interested in escape, as she rushed back into her burning apartment.

_She's crazier than I am_, Clint thought as he stared in disbelief.

* * *

_Another one?_ Natasha thought as she fired at the guy coming out of Heidi's apartment. She dropped her empty pistol and turned back to her own room without stopping to see if she had hit him. Heidi couldn't wait much longer.

The girl was curled up on the floor with her arms wrapped around her head. Overwhelmed with terror, she lied there helplessly as the inferno raged around her.

Natasha didn't go to her right away though. Swinging her head to the side, she saw an agent raising his rifle at her from just a foot away. She grabbed his gun barrel a split-second before he pulled the trigger. Bullets sprayed into the wall as she yanked it from his hands. Natasha swung right back, smashing the rifle butt into his face.

She looked around the room for other threats. There was nothing but the flames, and the blazing fountain of light and molten metal bursting out from the remnants of her bed.

It was a good thing that plastic explosives were designed for stability. The Semtex in her handbag burned, but it wouldn't detonate without the use of another explosive. If it had gone off, no one in the room would've survived.

Holding her assault rifle in one hand, she went to pick Heidi up from the floor. The girl shrieked when she was touched. "It's me, Heidi," Natasha said as calmly as she could. "It's okay. Get up. We have to go."

* * *

Clint went after Natasha, running past Quartermain and several other agents. Seeing them lying unconsciously along the hallway didn't exactly fill him with confidence. He reached the doorway of the burning apartment just in time to see the last member of Alpha Team take a rifle butt to the face. The outmatched agent fell flat on his back and didn't get up.

Raising his bow, Clint prepared to take Natasha from behind. She hadn't seen him. An arrow through the leg could bring her down, allowing him to disarm and apprehend her before getting the two of them the hell out of there. That was the best scenario that he could hope for. Things could get ugly very easily, if she held on to her rifle and fired back.

Then he saw her bending down to save the girl. "It's me, Heidi," Natasha said. The gentleness in her voice took him by surprise. "It's okay. Get up. We have to go."

Clint lowered his bow and stepped back out of the apartment. He wasn't going to fight her there and put that child's life at risk. Saving the girl and the unconscious agent were more important to him than winning another fight. He stepped behind the open door, hiding there as Natasha ran out with the girl in her hands.

Natasha swung her rifle, spraying away at Bravo Team as it came up the stairs again. Shooting one-handed and without any aiming, she wasn't able to hit anyone. However, she had bought herself a few precious seconds. Natasha dropped the empty rifle and picked Heidi up with both arms as they ran in the other direction.

Bravo team finally fired back. Clint watched as bullets ripped into the walls around Natasha and the girl. Natasha clearly had no choice but to keep sprinting in the hopes that she wouldn't get hit. She didn't slow herself to turn down the stairs. She jumped instead, flying straight out the window at the end of the hallway.

"Hold your fire!" Clint yelled. Bravo Team stopped shooting as they came down the hall. "There's still someone in there," Clint said. "You guys get him out. I'm going after the Widow!"

* * *

Natasha lowered her face into Heidi's hair as they crashed through the glass. A second later, she felt the hard, unforgiving steel of the building's fire escape. "Ugh!" Natasha cried as she landed awkwardly on her side. The pain didn't stop there. She and Heidi kept rolling on momentum, right down the nearby flight of steel steps.

They came to a stop on the third floor platform. Gritting her teeth, Natasha ignored her own pain as she picked Heidi up and got to her feet. The poor girl was crying hysterically, but they couldn't stop. Another agent had already jumped out from the fourth floor window.

It was the archer again. The man who had killed so many back at the warehouse. She knew that he was coming for revenge. This man liked to kill, so much that he had made a game of it. _Why else would he use that bow?_ Natasha thought as she started running down the stairs with Heidi in her arms.

The archer's feet pounded on the metal as he came down two steps at a time. He was relentless, and it was clear to her that he wouldn't stop until she was dead. After all, he was on a mission. Men were the same everywhere, no matter what flag or cause they fought for. She couldn't outrun him, not in her present situation...

As she reached the second floor, Natasha saw the crowds of people who had gathered outside the building. Many of them were looking up at her and Heidi, including the girl's mother. The archer was still right behind her and getting closer. In a few seconds, he would have them. _Unless_...Natasha thought.

Holding Heidi tight, she jumped over the railing and onto the street below. She landed on her feet, but on an odd angle. "Aaaah!" Natasha cried. She didn't know if she had broken anything, but it no longer mattered.

Several brave citizens came up with Heidi's mother and pulled the child from her arms. Heidi didn't move very far, choosing instead to stop and look back at her.

Natasha groaned as she pushed herself up. Breathing heavily, she stared back into Heidi's eyes before saying what she had to. "Go."

Heidi's mother pulled at her again. The girl didn't fight her this time, but she still kept her eyes on Natasha as she slowly stepped away.

"Freeze!" someone suddenly said from behind.

* * *

"Take the shot, Barton!" Clint heard from his earphone. Hill was still treating Natasha like a dangerous combatant.

_Maybe she is_, Clint thought as he came down the fire escape. He kept his arrow fixed on her body as he neared her. Natasha was wounded on the ground. If he wanted to, he could have killed her in an instant. All he had to do was let go of his arrow, just like he had so many times before. But that simple thing had suddenly become much more difficult for him.

Clint watched as she opened her arms and let the people take Heidi away. Natasha had gone back into the fire to save that child. She wasn't just an assassin, for there was something good in her after all. It wouldn't have been right for him to destroy it. To callously kill her during such an act of kindness.

He waited as she and the child parted ways, allowing Natasha to get up and say one last thing before intervening.

"Freeze!" Clint yelled. "Turn around. Hands above your head."

Natasha raised her arms as she slowly turned in his direction. Clint kept his guard up she did so, half expecting her to launch into a spin kick. She didn't though. Natasha finished her turn and just stood there, looking at him. The fight had left her eyes.

Having completed her mission, she no longer seemed to care about what would happen to her.

Clint held his bow steady as he paused to think about what to do next. He suddenly heard a gunshot.

The bullet tore through Natasha's shoulder. Staggering, she fell to the street and struck her head against the curb. Blood dripped from her forehead, as she lied there motionless.

"Natasha!" Heidi screamed. Her mother grabbed her and rushed away with the other bystanders.

"Got her!" Agent Carter said, as he and Agent Lopez arrived with their handguns drawn. Looking down to examine Natasha, they noticed that she was still alive. Carter pointed his gun straight down at her face. "Time to die, bitch."

"No!" Clint yelled. He turned and launched his arrow to knock the gun from Carter's hands.

Lopez swung in his direction, but Clint disarmed him too with a swing of his bow. He quickly swung again, striking Lopez on his forehead.

"Who's side are you on?!" Carter yelled as he grabbed Clint from behind and punched him.

Reeling back several steps, Clint recovered just as Carter came at him again. He ducked under Carter's haymaker and slammed one end of his bow into the agent's gut. As the big guy hunched over, Clint jumped and whipped Carter across the back to bring him down. He finished the fight with a hard kick to the face before his opponent could get back up.

Winning didn't mean that he could stop though. Clint looped his bow around his own body and jumped for Natasha, snatching her up as Bravo Team began to fire on them from above.

Running down the side street with Natasha draped over his shoulder, he reached for his bow handle and tapped the combo for a smokescreen arrow. Clint pulled the arrow from his quiver and threw it right down onto the pavement. He could only hope that the agents wouldn't luck their way into a blind shot through the smoke.

_God Clint_, he thought as he came out from between the buildings and onto the next big street. _You've really outdone yourself this time_. People watched and pointed as he ran by with Natasha in his arms. It must have been a strange sight indeed.

"Hey!" Agent Coulson suddenly yelled. "What's going on?"

Clint turned and saw Coulson near his car with another agent. There was nowhere else to go. Clint ran to the car and laid Natasha down against it.

The other agent's mouth dropped open as he saw who it was. "Whoa, is that -"

Clint decked him before he could finish his sentence. He and Coulson then turned and grabbed each other simultaneously.

"Why are you doing this?" Coulson asked, straining as he tried to gain the upper hand.

"She doesn't deserve to die," Clint said. He broke the clinch and turned to throw Coulson to the ground. Clint felt bad as he jumped on top of him and reached for Coulson's own flex-cuffs. The two of them weren't especially close, but Phil was the closest thing that he had to a friend in SHIELD.

"You're making a big mistake," Coulson said as Clint cuffed his hands behind his back.

"Yeah, I know," Clint replied. He then reached into Coulson's pocket to take his keys, before getting up and returning to Natasha. "I know this looks bad," he said as he opened the car door and laid her into the passenger seat.

"It's not too late!" Coulson yelled. "Just stop this, Clint!"

Clint got into the car himself and started it up. "Sorry Coulson," he said as he went to open the glove compartment. From there he removed the cardboard box containing Coulson's prized Captain America action figure. "I can't do that." He dropped the box out the side window before stepping on the gas.

Police cars and fire engines drove by with their sirens blaring as he sped down the street. Clint weaved through traffic, too afraid to slow down. He was lucky that the SHIELD task force was in such disarray. By all rights, they should've caught or killed him already.

"Barton!" Agent Hill suddenly yelled through his earphone. "Of all the stupid, crazy things..." She paused and breathed heavily for the next few seconds, as if she were too enraged to talk. "You were supposed to kill her, damn it!"

"Yeah?" Clint said. "Well I made a different call."

"I swear to God, Barton. I'm gonna hunt you down, and when I find you -"

Clint plucked his earphone out and tossed from the car. He didn't need to hear the rest of Hill's threat. He already trusted her to do her absolute worst.

_**To be continued in Chapter 9: Cold Light of Day**_


	9. Cold Light of Day

**Chapter 9**

**Cold Light of Day**

_August 2, 2004_

The sirens were awfully close. Clint looked at his rear view mirror and saw a green car pull up behind him with the word "POLIZEI" painted across its hood. It was the Bundesgrenzschutz, or BGS, Germany's federal police force. Agent Hill had pulled some strings earlier to keep those guys waiting on standby during the raid. She must have changed her mind and sicced them on him just now.

His car rocked as the BGS vehicle rammed him from behind. Something pressed against his right arm. Clint looked over and saw Natasha drooping over onto him. Looking forward again, he swerved to avoid the car in front of them. Natasha's limp body swung back the other way and slammed against the door. She was bleeding all over the place.

The rear window shattered as Clint heard multiple gunshots. The police were trying to kill him. _Treating me like a terrorist!_ he thought. He gripped his steering wheel harder as he narrowed his eyes. _Wonder who gave them the idea._

Clint stepped on the gas. City streets were not designed for fast driving, but he saw no other choice. His car accelerated and gained just several yards on his pursuer, who wasn't shy about speeding up to match him.

More bullets ripped into the side of his car. Things were getting worse, Clint realized, as he saw a second police car turn onto the street behind him.

He weaved through the traffic, until he found himself boxed into his lane. Closely packed civilian cars filled the street to his right, going out as far as he could see. A long tram formed a moving wall on his left.

Staying in his lane on this side of the road wasn't an option. Clint floored his gas pedal. There wasn't much space between the head of the tram, and the next car in front of him. However, that was all he had going for him.

Clint zoomed just past the tram before stomping on his brake and turning hard across its tracks. His car went into a skid. He turned his head to stare at the front of the tram, which came within several feet of plowing into him. Clint gasped as his car made it across, stopping with its front pointed in the opposite direction from the one he had been driving in. _Not dead yet_, he thought, before stepping on the gas again.

The BGS drivers hadn't been so reckless. Instead, they had slowed down and waited for the tram to pass before turning across the tracks to continue their pursuit. _Good thing they're not so crazy_, Clint thought as he made a sharp right turn. _Someone might get hurt_.

He tried to maintain his speed on the crowded street, pounding on his horn to clear out the pedestrians in front of him. The traffic light at the nearest intersection turned yellow. Clint didn't slow down one bit. He looked up as he blew through the intersection, seeing the light turn red. One of the police vehicles made it through with him. The other was taken out as another car struck it in the side.

With the cops gaining on him again, Clint turned onto another street. _Have to give it to these guys_, Clint thought. _They don't quit_. Another green BGS vehicle appeared down the street, positioned to cut him off from the front. It didn't just approach him; it turned into his lane with the clear intention of stopping him with a head-on collision.

Clint fixed his eyes forward as he kept going, counting down the seconds until they would make impact. With just a moment left, he swerved away. The thundering sound of metal smashing against metal filled his ears. Behind him, the two cop cars had taken each other out.

"Wooh!" Clint yelled in relief. He wasn't prone to loud outbursts of emotion, but there was a time for everything. He started to gasp, as he realized that he had been holding his breath. Clint tried to calm himself down while he turned onto another street. He had lost three police cars, but many more were sure to join the hunt. Not to mention all the SHIELD teams that Hill would mobilize against him.

A change in strategy was needed. He may have been good at running, but even the best couldn't run forever. Clint looked around the street for a place to hide. His eyes suddenly stopped on the underground car park down the road. He turned into its ramp, descending into safety as he heard more sirens approach.

Nearby, a young German man got out from his red car. Clint stopped behind him and got out as well. "Bundesgrenzschutz!" Clint yelled. He briefly flashed his SHIELD ID card in the hopes of passing it off as a badge.

"She's hurt!" Clint said in German, relying on his scant knowledge of the language. He hurried over to remove Natasha from his car. Clint knew his vocabulary was limited, and that his accent was even worse. To pass this off, he'd need to speak quickly and decisively in order to leave the boy no time to think.

It was working so far. The young man opened his mouth and uttered a confused, inarticulate sound.

"She's dying!" Clint yelled before he could say one word in response. "Your car! Now!" He reached out and snatched the boy's keys without giving him as much as one look in the eye.

Clint laid Natasha into the red car, before going back to his own vehicle to grab his gear and supplies. _Sergeyev's briefcase too_, he thought as he found it in his trunk._ Wouldn't want to forget that_. After dumping everything into the trunk of the red car, he opened the side door and jumped straight into the driver's seat.

"Was zur Hölle!" the boy finally yelled as Clint drove away with his vehicle.

Clint didn't know what the poor guy had even said. He wasn't sure if he even knew how to say "Thanks." It was best for him not to even try. He simply drove out of the parking garage without another word.

With his new car, Clint drove slower and more carefully. He would have to avoid the cops, but nobody would notice him if he didn't do anything to stand out. There was no need to rush out of the city now. He could drive as fast as he wanted to, once he reached the autobahn.

* * *

_August 3, 2004_

Clint looked around as he drove through empty rural roads. It was 12:14 AM, and there weren't many lights in this part of the countryside near the Czech border. He didn't mind the darkness, since lights existed in proportion to the number of people around.

All he needed now was a place where he could lay Natasha down and properly tend to her wounds. Since their escape from Dresden, he had briefly left the wheel only once. All he had done with that time was restrain Natasha's hands and feet, before wrapping her wounds in bandages and applying pressure to stop her bleeding.

He was glad that she hadn't woken up and attacked him in the car. But after so many hours, her stillness had begun to worry him. Natasha had lied there the entire time, only occasionally muttering something with her eyes closed.

The gunshot wound in her left shoulder wasn't actually that bad; the bullet had cleanly passed through her upper arm without fragmenting or tearing through any bones or major organs. More concerning to him was her head injury, as well as all the blood that she had lost while he had raced through the city like a maniac. She was due for some better care than what he had given her so far.

A large home appeared, standing near the gently rolling slopes by the road. It was the only man-made structure in sight, surrounded by fields and a few patches of trees. All of the lights were off, and there weren't any cars in the circular driveway. This far from any city, it wasn't likely that any occupants would just leave for a night out at town. Whoever lived there had probably taken off for a while.

_It's as good a place as any_, Clint thought as he went into the driveway and brought the car to a stop. He didn't have any plan to deal with the owners if they actually showed up. All he could do was hope that they wouldn't.

Clint crouched down to inspect the lock. _Nothing I can't pick_. With a sigh, he began to do his thing. Lock picking was a skill that he had learned during his time as an outlaw. He had thought that he had left that life behind forever. Instead, he now found himself coming full circle. How long he would have to live in such a way, or in any way at all, was anyone's guess.

The lock popped open. Clint stepped inside and saw no electronic keypad. _No alarm_, he thought. _Good_.

He went back to get Natasha, as well as the SHIELD medical kit that he had thrown into the trunk of the car. She moaned as he picked her up and brought her into the house. After taking her upstairs, he carried her into the nearest bedroom. Clint gently laid her onto the bed, before cuffing her arms and legs to the bedposts. Then he went to work.

The first thing that took from his bag was the intravenous drip set. It consisted of several bags of saline solution, a small metal stand from which to hang them on, as well as plastic tubes and needles to carry their fluid into a patient's veins. Clint set everything up on the nightstand beside Natasha's bed, before inserting the needle into her hand and taping it in place.

Ideally, she would have gotten a blood transfusion. However, it was most important simply to replace the _volume_ of fluids that her body had lost. Someone with a half-empty circulatory system was at risk of going into shock, if not dying.

Salt water wasn't a complete substitution for blood, because it couldn't carry oxygen the way that blood could. However, the human body was resilient and adaptable. Natasha's heart would simply work harder for the time being, pumping more blood with each beat to compensate. Rest would also aid in her recovery process. Her oxygen needs wouldn't be that much at all if she simply stayed still on her bed.

With her most pressing needs taken care of, Clint proceeded to check her head injury. There was a nasty gash on her forehead, but thankfully, he didn't find any signs of skull fractures. That still didn't mean that she hadn't suffered a concussion; Clint was leaning toward the possibility that she had. He had neither the equipment nor the expertise to confirm that with a brain scan though.

After all, he wasn't a doctor. He wasn't even a qualified combat medic. All he knew were a few basics that he had picked up while working in the field with other SHIELD agents. Clint was glad to be healing, rather than killing someone for once. But this was the first time that he had ever been left alone to treat a casualty. The situation made him very uneasy.

Whatever the case with Natasha's head, he could do nothing more about it but give her time to rest. With that thought in mind, Clint moved on to her shoulder. Using disinfectants, he wiped both the entry and the exit holes in her upper arm.

The burning of the chemicals, as well as the movement of his hands over her torn flesh, must have been very painful for her. Natasha opened her eyes and nervously stared at him as he worked on her. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Where's Heidi?"

"She's fine," Clint said. "Try to relax. It'd be better if you stayed still." He knew that was easier said than done. He saw her grit her teeth and tense up, as he proceeded through the messy business of sewing up her wounds.

_I can't even relax_, he thought. He half expected that she would freak out and start screaming at him. But that fear proved to be unfounded. Natasha just lied there like a good patient.

He didn't know if she trusted him, or if she had simply made the most rational choice available to her. Probably the latter. She was tied down with no idea of where she was, or how many SHIELD agents he might have had with him. And of course, it was in her best interest to get patched up. An agent couldn't fight if she succumbed to injuries.

With her stitches completed, Clint knew that he had done all that he was capable of for the time being. Natasha had closed her eyes and sunk back into her pillow. She actually looked peaceful in her sleep. Clint gently brushed her cheek with his hand. This woman had a face like an angel. The question was whether she had a soul to match...

It was very late by then, and Clint was on his last ounce of energy. He trudged over to the next bedroom over and locked himself in. Then he collapsed onto the bed inside, without bothering to change out of his clothes.

He needed to sleep, but he also didn't feel completely safe. Not with an enemy agent in the house, and a hundred more people out there looking to kill him. He thought about Natasha escaping from her bonds to slit his throat, again and again even as he lied there staring at the ceiling. His hand slid on top of the pistol holstered at his side. It was the only way he could gain enough comfort to fall asleep.

* * *

"Alright," Natasha said as she turned the doorknob inside the bathroom. "I'm coming out."

After she had woken up that afternoon, going to the bathroom had been the first thing that she had asked for. Agent Barton freed her from just one of her four cuffs, before he tossed her the keys to unlock the rest by herself. Even if he wasn't holding her at gunpoint, her body felt sluggish and her head and shoulder were killing her. Under those conditions, she had chosen not to resist.

Thankfully, the bathroom didn't have a window. Otherwise, Barton might have made her walk across the house to use another one. The room was bare, after he had stripped it of razors, towels, toothbrushes, or anything else that she could conceivably use as a tool or weapon. Natasha took it as a point of pride that this agent was being so cautious around her, just minutes after pulling an IV tube from her arm.

"Hands up," Barton said as she walked back into the bedroom. He kept his eyes and his gun aimed at her as he pointed toward her bed.

Natasha climbed onto the mattress again and sat down, with her back resting against the headboard. Hopefully, Barton wouldn't have a problem with that. She had lied down flat for long enough, and she was sick of it.

"Put them back on," he said as he tossed her the keys again. "You can keep your good arm free. I want to show you something. Just...don't try anything."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Natasha said as she locked her cuffs. To her delight, she could see Barton tense up at her comment. If this agent was going to hold her there, she wasn't going to make it easy for him.

"Recognize this briefcase?" he asked.

"That's Dr. Sergeyev's," Natasha replied. She paused for a second as she realized what that meant. "Did you kill him?"

Barton nodded his head before he opened it. "I'm guessing he didn't show you any of this yet. There's some eye-opening stuff in there."

"Like what?" Natasha asked.

"Like your parents," Barton said as he tossed a folder onto her lap. "They were killed for saying something against the government."

_How dare he_,Natasha thought. Without opening the folder, she tightened her fist and stared back at him. Interrogators were prone to using any number of tricks, but making up stories about her dead parents was just low.

"It's all in those letters," Barton said. "Written by some guy you might know called Ivan Petrovitch."

"Liar!" Natasha screamed. She grabbed the folder and threw it back at him, not caring at all if it would make him angry.

Agent Barton remained calm as he looked down for a moment at the scattered papers on the floor. "Hmm, you get angry a lot? I bet you do. I'd be angry too."

"If you're gonna do something, then just get it over with," Natasha said. "Don't play these sick games with me."

"I'm not the one doing that," Barton said, before he tossed another folder to her. "You know those 'performance enhancers' they made you take?"

_Yeah, I do_, Natasha thought. She had hated those drugs long before, all on her own. Knowing that, she found herself opening the folder and looking down. Phrases like "memory modification therapy" and "personality refinement" jumped out at her as she skimmed through the papers inside.

"Turns out they didn't just give you focus," Barton said as she continued to read. "You even remember how long you've been taking them?"

"I, uh..." Natasha said. The answer wouldn't come to her. _Don't listen to him_, she thought as a sense of panic came to her instead. _He's trying to confuse you_.

"It's not easy, is it?" Barton asked. "They've got you so messed up you can't even tell."

The papers crinkled as her hands tightened around them. She became aware of her own trembling, as well as how strained her breathing had become. _Why can't I remember?_

The question was a simple one, and it should have been so easy to answer it. Just one brief little answer like "three years ago" would have made all her doubts disappear. But despite how badly she wanted it, the answer still wouldn't come. _He can't really be telling the truth, can he?_

"You remember Aliya at least, don't you?" Barton asked. "You know, Drakov's daughter?"

"She betrayed my country," Natasha said. "She deserved to die."

"Sure. If that's what helps you sleep at night."

"I found her in Georgia," Natasha said as she leaned forward and raised her voice. Hardening herself, she glared right into Barton's eyes. "She was doing something there. Why _else_ would she go?"

"Oh, except to take a vacation?" Barton asked. He tossed some more papers to her. "You tapped her friend's phone. You _knew_ why she was going."

Once again, his papers drew her eyes to them. The latest papers comprised a report on Aliya Drakov's travel plans. At the end, Natasha found her own name.

"You also know she was taking a break before medical school?" Barton asked as she looked up at him again. "That she thought her boyfriend was gonna propose? Or how's about the fact that she was killed just to get to her dad?"

Natasha's gasped, leaving her mouth hanging wide open. She raised her hands to cover it, before quickly averting her eyes.

"No, of course you don't," he said. "It's been blocked out. Just like São Paulo."

"I _didn't know_ what would happen," Natasha said. She turned back to him and sneered. If there was one time when she had been left in the dark about the nature of her mission, it was that one...

"You knew just fine," Barton said. "You were just so hopped up on your meds that you didn't give a damn. Not until you sobered up and found out you killed fifteen innocent people."

"I _what?_" Natasha asked.

"File says you were so traumatized that your 'Uncle Ivan' had to make up some fairy tale about how you didn't know."

"Shut up!" Natasha yelled. She bent over and grabbed her head again as tears streamed from her eyes. "Enough already!"

"I haven't even gotten to Alexei yet."

"Don't you DARE say his name!" Natasha cried. _Anything but him_, she thought as she waited for the next awful thing to spring from Barton's lips. She didn't know what she would do, if he took Alexei away from her...Stopping that line of thought, she collected her anger and fired back another response. "He was a better man than you'll ever be!"

"He probably _is_," Barton said. "Only the best were picked for 'Project Guardian.'" Again, he tossed some papers at her.

"Project Guardian?" Natasha asked. _Why did I just ask? _Her curiosity was at odds with her fear and distrust. She didn't know which way to go.

"Some top secret assignment," Barton said. "Real prestigious. Alexei wanted it enough to fake his own death. I'm guessing he didn't see a need for you to know."

"NO!" Natasha screamed. She reached out in a wild attempt to grab Barton. If she weren't shackled to the bed, she would have throttled his throat. "You're lying! I don't believe a damn thing you say!"

Barton stood there and watched her for several moments, as if to shine a light on the way that she was acting. "I think you do."

Natasha spat in his face. "Go to hell!"

"Sure, I'll go," he said, before he finally yelled back. "Right after you!" He went to the nearby desk where he dumped the briefcase, before he pulled out its entire contents and returned to the bed. There he shouted again, staggering his words as he slammed the folders down several at a time. "The story...of your life...is written...in blood!"

Both of them glanced at the pile that he had dropped on her. Natasha heard him breathing heavily as he tried to calm down.

"I'm trying to show you something here," he said. His voice had cracked as if he were disappointed, or even sad. "But it's like I can't get through to you..." Barton paused to run his fingers through his hair and sigh. "Whatever," he said as he straightened up and tried to regain his composure. "Guess I can't force you to believe. Just look at those papers, okay? For once in your life, just look things over and decide for yourself." With that, he turned for the door.

"Wait," Natasha said. As angry and confused as he had made her, she suddenly found herself afraid to be alone.

"I'm tired, and I'm hungry, and I am _sick_ of this crazy crap," he said. He shook his head and took a deep breath. "I'm just gonna sit down now and make myself some food. Do whatever you want with your life, all right? Either way, I've already ruined mine to save you." Barton walked out the door, dragging it shut behind him.

* * *

Clint held the doorknob behind him as he trembled and heard his own breath. _I've ruined my life_, he thought. _And for what?_

His stomach growled. He had not just been dramatic about being hungry. After all, it had been almost a full day since his last meal. He slid his fingers off of the doorknob and made his way down the stairs. It would be simple to take care of his need to eat.

There was nothing in the kitchen except for a can of instant coffee. Technically, there _was_ some food there, but all of it was either expired or something that he didn't like. With a sigh, he walked out of the house and to his car. He had been in such a rush to treat Natasha the night before that he had left most of his gear outside. Clint retrieved his bow and his quiver, along with a backpack full of MRE rations.

Each "Meal, Ready-to-Eat" was a sealed bag stuffed with more than a thousand calories of food. Lots of people joked about the processed nature of their contents, but Clint liked them just fine. They were conveniently light in weight, with a shelf life measured in years. Included inside each was a chemical packet that could heat up and cook an entrée with the simple addition of water.

MREs were usually the only way that troops could enjoy a hot meal in the battlefield. Though Clint was in a different situation, he felt as though he were a soldier trapped behind enemy lines. Agent Hill's threat from the previous night came back to him, as well as the fact that he had no idea when the house's owners would return. He still hadn't thought of a plan to deal with them. And worst of all, he was alone.

Yes, he was alone. Barely hiding in plain sight along an empty country road, with all of SHIELD actively hunting for him. _I've got nothing_, he thought. _No one else...What made me save her?_

Clint sat down in the kitchen, where he began to heat his meal. It would take about a minute. He turned and looked out the window at the road, where he saw a black SUV. Clint held his breath and waited, hoping that he wouldn't have to spring into action. The vehicle kept approaching, until it went right past the house and began to shrink away in the distance.

He lowered his head and exhaled. It would only be a matter of time before they found him.

* * *

Natasha forced herself to reach for another file. She knew that she wouldn't find anything good inside.

It wasn't the big revelations that shook her anymore. It was all of the details surrounding them. Little facts relating to things that she had pondered while lying in bed or waiting at airports. The details were so clear and specific, and they neatly filled so many of the holes in her past. Just from reading those papers, she had become aware of several holes that she had never even noticed.

These files had finally given her the answers. They just weren't the ones that she had been looking for. She hated the fact that everything was making so much sense.

As she read on, tears came again and flowed freely from her eyes. Natasha was disturbed at how often she had been crying lately, after holding in her tears in for so long. There _had_ to be another explanation. Surely, Uncle Ivan wouldn't do all of this to her...

_No matter what happens, no matter what anyone says, always remember that I love you._

Natasha sat up straight as her mouth fell open. That had been Uncle Ivan's voice playing so vividly in her mind. She hadn't seen him in more than a week, and the days before her most recent mission seemed so hazy. However, that one statement of his remained seared in her memory.

Shaking, Natasha reached for the ring on her right hand. Uncle Ivan had given it to her as a gift, telling her that with it, they would never be apart. She had always worn that one piece of jewelry, and it had comforted her in the past. Now it comforted her again, as she sat crying in her bed.

* * *

Clint walked up the stairs with a hot tray of meatloaf in his hands. In his self-pity, he had forgotten that Natasha also hadn't eaten in almost a day. He felt bad for her, after hearing her cry on and off again over the last several hours.

Balancing his tray in one hand, he reached and turned the doorknob to her bedroom. He almost dropped everything when he saw the empty bed inside.

Without thinking, he rushed in to have a closer look. A moment later, he realized what a big mistake that had been. He heard Natasha push aside the open door behind him, right before she took his gun.

_**To be continued in Chapter 10: Alone in the Dark**_


	10. Alone in the Dark

**Chapter 10**

**Alone in the Dark**

_August 3, 2004_

Clint dropped the food and raised his hands. His whole situation had been turned upside down, in the course of only a few seconds.

"Stay still!" Natasha said. She kicked the door shut behind them before she circled around to point the gun at his face. "I have a few questions. You better give me answers."

"I've _given_ you a whole bunch already," Clint said. "What's the matter? Still don't believe me?"

"Oh, I believe you alright. I just don't know what you and SHIELD plan on doing with me now."

"Me and SHIELD?" Clint asked. "You think -"

"You listen to me. I am _done_ being jerked around." She took a step forward, forcing him to back up against the door. "So tell me, how many agents are here?"

"Wait, what?"

"How many?!" Natasha yelled. "You got dogs outside? Snipers? Tell me!"

"There's no one," Clint said. "I _saved_ you from SHIELD. It's just you and me now."

Natasha kept the gun on him as she nervously looked around the room. "Don't you come in here!" she yelled. "I'll kill him!"

Clint could hear her anxious, unsteady breaths as he saw the gun tremble in her hand. Pulling himself together, he looked beyond the gun barrel and into her eyes. There was no malice there, only fear and confusion. He had to take a chance..."You don't wanna do that," he said.

"I'll kill him!" she said again. Natasha kept breathing heavily over the next minute as she waited for a response.

"No one's gonna come," Clint finally said. "I told you before. It's just you and me."

"Oh God," Natasha said. She laid the gun on the desk and sat down on her bed. "I am so sorry for this. That was totally paranoid."

"It's alright," Clint said. He retrieved his gun and holstered it, before he went to the bed and sat down next to her. "People haven't given you much reason to trust." Slowly, he slid his arm around her back.

Natasha jerked away from his touch for a moment, before she settled down. "I'm sorry," she said again as she lowered her head in shame. "Thanks for saving me, Agent Barton. Don't know if I really deserve this. I've done so much wrong in my life."

"Hey, everyone has," Clint said. "My hands aren't completely clean either...By the way, you can call me 'Clint.' Everyone at SHIELD calls me 'Agent Barton' as if that's all I am."

"Okay, Clint."

"You can also call me 'Hawkeye' if you want."

Natasha looked up at him and cracked a smile. "You really go around calling yourself 'Hawkeye?'"

"What, like you don't go around calling yourself the 'Black Widow?'" Clint replied.

Natasha's smile faded as she turned away. "Ivan gave me that nickname...because of all the people I've killed."

"Sorry about that," Clint said. He pulled Natasha in and embraced her. "If it means anything to you, I kind of know what it's like."

"What do you mean?"

"I lost my parents too, when I was young," Clint said. He stopped and sighed before he continued. "But I guess things really started after my brother and I ran off to join the carnival."

* * *

Clint sat at the kitchen island with a few MREs cooking in front of him. He had only come down from Natasha's room a little while ago, and already it was dark. The two of them must have sat on her bed talking for hours.

_Really should turn on the lights_, he thought as he looked out at the darkened rooms and halls of the house. _Just as soon as these are done_.

He had heard Natasha turning off the shower upstairs just a minute ago. He wanted to have the food ready for her before she came down, served on plates rather than in the cheap plastic bags and cardboard boxes that that they had come in. _Don't know why I even wanna bother_, he thought. Either way, the food would still taste cheap.

The stairs creaked, drawing Clint's attention as Natasha came down to the kitchen. She was wearing jeans, as well as a white tank top underneath a black leather jacket. The clothes had a casual appeal, and they hugged her body in a very flattering way. Clint found it hard not to stare.

"I found these in the closet," Natasha said. "Hope the owner doesn't mind."

Clint laughed and smiled. "I think we're _way_ past that point." He kept looking her in the eye as she walked inside and took a seat across from him. _What is this?_ he thought. _Some kind of reverse Stockholm Syndrome?_ Just hours ago she had been a captured enemy agent, someone whom he had feared and kept in shackles. Now, he could only think of getting closer to her.

"What's all this?" Natasha asked as she pointed at the cardboard boxes lying all over the kitchen island.

"Meals!" Clint declared. "Ready to eat!" He glanced down at the food as he realized that they would need another minute. "Think they're still heating up though..."

Natasha stared at the MREs with an uneasy look on her face. The idea of food cooking inside a cardboard box clearly seemed strange to her. "Is this an American thing?"

"Uh...yeah. Sort of. I promise you, the food's not as weird as it looks."

"If you say so..." Natasha said. She sat down across from him, but she strangely avoided making eye contact.

"What's bothering you?" Clint asked.

"How exactly was my work helping terrorists?"

Clint sighed as he suppressed a selfish desire to eat and chat with her. _Right back to business_, he thought. "That's what we've been trying to find out. All we've gotten have been little clues here and there. I don't even know where to start. Guess I could ask what you guys were buying in Chemnitz."

"I don't know...My memory's kind of hazy."

"Think," Clint said.

"I'm trying," Natasha said. "They had me drugged. I was only sent there to fight."

"Did you see those things at least?"

"I didn't really get a good look at them," Natasha said. "They were weird though. I think I saw some dim blue lights..."

"Think they could've been missile components?" Clint asked. "Prototypes for a new drone or spy satellite? I don't know...I'm just throwing out ideas here. Whatever those things were, they had to be important. The terrorist I killed was supposed to chip in fifty million euros."

"So that's why we were short," Natasha said. "Wonder why they cost that much though. Murati said he found those things in the woods."

"That's right," Clint replied. "I heard that too. Didn't think he was being serious..." He stopped as he tried to remember more. "Hmm. The terrorists were talking about these things too. They were real annoyed with the way people 'idolized' American power. Said something about bringing on the 'Twilight of the Idols.'"

"_What_ did you say?" Natasha asked.

"Uh, 'Twilight of the Idols?'" Clint asked.

"Idols." Natasha said. "A way of saying 'false gods.' These people are big on religion."

"And?" Clint asked.

"Twilight of the Gods," Natasha said. "That's a popular, if inaccurate interpretation of the word 'Ragnarok.' The prophesied end of the Norse Gods."

"I'm still not following this," Clint said.

"Replace the gods with America," Natasha said. She stopped and looked away for a second, clearly disturbed by her own words. "Ivan has some kind of fascination with the Red Skull. He sees him as some kind of twisted role model."

"Now how the _hell_ did we get to the Red Skull?" Clint asked.

"He praised the Skull for doing things his own way...for almost bringing 'Ragnarok' upon his enemies."

"Yeah, I know my history," Clint said. "He nearly blew up half the world with his own special bombs."

"Bombs powered by the gods themselves."

"Which have been lying around for years..." Clint said, as a realization suddenly dawned on him. "Off the grid. Never picked up and tracked by any government."

"And now he's gonna use those things to destroy America."

"We have to stop him," Clint said.

"I agree," Natasha said. "Call SHIELD. I'll tell you guys where..." She paused and looked out the window as if she had heard something. "...they are."

Clint heard it too. It was the soft whirring of helicopter blades in the distance. "Hey, Natasha..." he said, trailing off as he heard the sounds get louder and louder. The helicopter came in fast, until it seemed to come to a hover right outside the house. "Get down!"

They hit to the kitchen floor as machine gun fire ripped through the walls. The bullets came in long bursts that sailed high over their heads.

"They're just spraying!" Clint yelled.

"It's suppressive fire," Natasha said. "They're coming in!"

"I'll kill the lights," Clint said. He crawled to the light switch on the wall between the kitchen and the hall. Broken glass and wood rained down on him as he went. Clint raised his arm to protect his eyes, before he realized that he had given up several precious seconds. _Hurry up!_ he thought to himself. Looking up, he saw that the switch was just three feet away. He lunged forward and swept his hand down on it.

The kitchen turned black, just like the rest of the house. The only lights they could see now came from several flashlight beams sweeping in through the windows. Outside, someone shouted orders in Russian.

"That's not SHIELD," Clint said.

"No," Natasha said. She crawled to put the kitchen island between her and the door. "We wouldn't be that lucky."

_Need to get out of here_, Clint thought. "Here!" he said as he tossed his handgun to Natasha. "Hold them off!"

* * *

The gun had barely settled in her hands when she saw Clint roll to his feet and disappear into the darkness. _Focus_, Natasha thought. She assumed a proper grip on the weapon and raised it up by her face. There was no time to stress, even if her wounded shoulder was already hurting again.

With one loud crash, the kitchen door burst open. Natasha snapped up and fired three rounds at the first man coming in. He took it all in the chest and fell back onto the men behind him. _Good,_ Natasha thought. The doorway was a chokepoint and she intended to use it as such.

The next attacker was quick to respond though. Without bothering to get through the door or over his own fallen teammate, he simply sprayed his rifle at her from outside. Natasha dropped back down behind the island and rolled to the other side of it.

"He's okay!" someone yelled.

"Get up!" another man yelled. "Out of the way!"

Natasha heard the first man curse as he pushed himself up. _Crap_, she thought. _They're armored._ Clint's Glock packed more punch, and more bullets, than the PPK that she was used to. Even so, it would be no match against men with body armor and assault rifles.

Still crouching, she swung out from around the island as she heard the men moving in again. She was too late to prevent their entry this time. They split up as they entered the kitchen, trying to encircle her. Natasha fired several shots into the nearest one. Blood sprayed from his shoulder, but she knew that he wasn't down for good. She couldn't stop and pick her shots though. Not with several others already aiming at her.

She saw several bright muzzle flashes as she jumped sideways toward the kitchen exit. Rolling on the floor, she shot at another man's legs. He screamed and tilted toward the floor as she rolled out into the adjacent hall.

_Keep moving_, she thought. She turned and ran toward the nearby dining room. At least half a dozen men had come in through the kitchen. She hadn't killed even one. Yet she was down to three, _maybe_ four bullets left. The numbers weren't in her favor...

_Where are you, Clint?_ she thought as she dived into the dining room. She heard the other men coming out into the hallway. Natasha leaned out and shot slightly above the tactical lights mounted on their rifles. Three rounds were all that went off. One man fell and landed with a thud. It was too dark to see where she had hit him. Nor did she have any time to check, as automatic fire forced her to duck back into the room.

With no more ammo to fight with, Natasha tucked her gun into her jeans and looked around. The room was only dimly lit by the moonlight shining in through the window, but it was enough for them to see her. There was nothing to fight with...except for the wooden chairs at the table.

Natasha picked one up, ignoring the strain that it put on her shoulder. It was a useless move. At best, she had killed one attacker and taken another one or two out of the fight. She didn't even know how many more were still coming after her.

Though their exact mission was unknown, it was clear that they weren't playing around like the SHIELD team that had attacked her the night before. _How could Clint expect me to hold them off?_ Natasha thought. Her heart sank as she came to a terrible realization. _I'm just his decoy_.

She tightened her grip on the chair as she raised it higher like an unwieldy club. Clint had used her. He had betrayed her, just like Ivan, Alexei, and all the rest. Every one of them was the same...

Something suddenly exploded in the hallway. Natasha fell and dropped the chair as she heard her attackers scream.

"Natasha!" she heard Clint say. He kneeled down by her side and helped her up.

"You came back for me," she said in near disbelief. "I thought you -"

"They've got us surrounded," Clint said as he turned and looked behind. "Had to hold off a bunch myself. Come on, let's go!"

The two of them rushed through the wreckage of the hallway. Flashlights swept through the house as they made their way onto the stairs. Clint jumped up two steps at a time, and so did she. Gunfire tore through the walls behind them as they made their way onto the second floor.

* * *

"The bedroom," Clint said. He led Natasha toward the room where he had kept her for most of the day. _What now?_ he thought. He had spoken and moved with an air of confidence, but the truth was that he was just making it up as he went along.

Ideas rushed through his mind as they entered the room. Without any hesitation, Clint clicked several buttons on his bow handle. Turning around, he shot an arrow down toward the stairs. A cloud of smoke burst out, making it hard for anyone to follow them.

"We can escape through the window," Natasha said.

"Yeah," Clint replied. "That's the plan."

Looking outside, he saw men and black SUVs in several blocking positions around the house. Clint drew two more smokescreen arrows. _My last ones_, he thought, before he launched both out the window.

He wrapped his bow around his body and climbed outside, careful to balance himself on the slanted roof. Natasha came out right behind him. Below them, they could hear men coughing through the thick clouds of smoke. The fields beyond were barely visible themselves. Low-hanging clouds had washed over the skies, blotting out the moon and what little light it provided.

"Start running as soon as you hit the ground," he said. "Don't worry if you can't see me." Natasha looked him in the eye and nodded, right before the two of them jumped.

The foul smog slipped into his nostrils as he came down. Clint ignored the smell and held his breath as he sprinted toward the fields. _Stay with me_, he thought as he heard Natasha's footsteps nearby.

Clint ran as fast as he could, waiting until he had burst out from the smoke before he allowed himself the luxury of breathing again. The night was cool, and it was made colder still by his sweat and the speed at which he cut through the air.

He could see almost nothing, but he could hear a lot. Behind him, men were yelling and spraying their assault rifles. All he could do was run, but he knew that he and Natasha needed to find some cover.

The ground beneath him began to slant up. Clint worked his legs to climb the slope as several bullets struck nearby. The shots had come so close that he could feel the dirt that they kicked up. Thankfully, the ground evened off before slanting down at a sharp angle. Clint dived forward and rolled several feet down the slope.

"Natasha!" he yelled.

"I'm here," she replied.

Following the sound of her gasps, Clint reached out and felt her arm. She was breathing heavily, even for someone who had just sprinted a couple hundred yards. "You okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she said, clearly trying to sound strong. It was quite admirable, coming from someone who was wounded and low on blood.

"Good," Clint said. "Time we started shooting back." He pulled his bow off from around his chest before he reached into his pocket for his shades. He hadn't used them inside the house, for fear of being blinded by lights. But now, with only the faintest sliver of moonlight shining down through the clouds, he would finally be able to use his gear to its potential.

"It's dark enough as it is," Natasha said as he put his shades on. "This is no time to act cool."

"Now you sound like Agent Hill," he replied.

"Who?"

Clint turned on his night vision, before he drew a basic arrow and climbed to look over the top of the slope.

With the stars and the moon blocked out by clouds, there wasn't much light for even his night vision to work with. The Russians had been smart enough to turn off most of their flashlights as well, now that the hunt had shifted outside. Only a couple unfortunate men kept theirs on, spotting for the rest of their team while turning themselves into big bright targets.

_Poor guy_, Clint thought as he launched his arrow at the nearest spotter. The man's Kevlar vest could stop pistol rounds, but it did nothing to keep Clint's arrow from slicing into his chest. The spotter twisted and fell to the ground, where his rifle-mounted light disappeared into the tall grass. The other spotter panicked and turned his light off. The field and the rest of the squad were consumed by the darkness. Everyone had just been rendered blind.

_Everyone but me_. Clint activated his bow's infrared illuminator and swept it over the field. The device projected IR energy below the spectrum visible to the naked eye. With his night vision on, it was like a flashlight that only he could see. The infrared revealed a Russian calling out to his teammates as he scrambled through the grass. Clint sent out another arrow that put him down as well.

Scanning the rest of the field, he continued to pick off the others as they ran around in disarray. He was a silent, invisible killer, and everyone else was a target. Shrouded in darkness, he could keep shooting with impunity...

That was the case, until the helicopter's searchlight shined down on him. "Ah!" Clint yelled as he yanked off his shades, blinded by the intensified light that had flooded into his eyes. Gunfire rang out before he could recover.

"Get down!" Natasha yelled. She grabbed him from behind and pulled him back behind cover.

The shooting continued, and not all of it was coming from the men on the ground. The helicopter had joined in as well with its heavy machine gun. Dirt flew over them as it unleashed burst after burst into the ground above.

Clint selected an explosive arrow and went up to attempt a shot. A stream of bullets landed right in front of him, sending him tumbling back. "Damn it!" Clint said. "That thing's got us pinned down!"

"It can circle around as well," Natasha said.

"Won't be long until it has a clear shot," Clint said. He looked down, finding himself at a loss of what to do.

"I can run out there," Natasha said. "Draw its fire so you take a shot."

"No way!" Clint said as he grabbed her by the arm. "You'll get yourself killed!" Bullets ripped into the earth just several feet from them, causing them to huddle up against the slope. The sound of the helicopter blades chopping through the air grew louder and louder.

"You got a better plan?" Natasha asked.

He exhaled in frustration. "No, I don't."

"Then I guess this is it," Natasha said as she turned away.

_Let's hope that it's not_, Clint thought. He drew an explosive arrow and readied himself for the shot.

"Wait!" Natasha suddenly said. She turned around again and surprised him with a kiss on the cheek. "For luck."

"Was it really?" Clint asked, still taken by the softness of her lips.

"I'll need you to make that shot, won't I?" She gave him a half-smile, before she turned and took off into the field beyond.

* * *

Natasha felt her feet pounding against the ground. Clint was right. This _was_ a stupid idea. But she had already committed to it, and there was no choice now but to keep running. Even if it meant pushing her wounded body to its limits.

The helicopter's searchlight followed her. She knew what was coming next. Natasha dug deep for one last bit of untapped speed. Bullets struck behind her, and then immediately to her right.

_Any time now, Clint._ The guns went off again, sending bullets down in front of her this time. She jumped and found herself rolling on the ground.

As she pushed her face up from the grass, something exploded in the air. She couldn't celebrate for a moment before a broken tail rotor planted itself down in front of her. Natasha's eyes widened as she heard the helicopter spiraling down in her direction.

_Move!_ she thought. Pushing off with both arms, she got up and ran several steps before leaping away. The multi-ton vehicle made impact, shaking the ground before flipping over onto its side. Its main rotor kept going for several more seconds, hacking into the earth to throw up a shower of dirt.

Natasha clutched her left shoulder as she lied nearby, trying hard to catch her breath. She _really_ shouldn't have been out there, fighting and running so much just a day after being shot. With a groan, she rolled over to see the wreckage.

The helicopter lied among a field of its own debris, burning and sending a plume of smoke into the air. _Don't see any survivors_, she thought.

Someone suddenly kicked her in the face. Natasha felt her brain rattle inside her skull It was a miracle that she was still awake. Lightheaded and short on energy, she staggered to her feet to see who had attacked her. Her opponent was none other than Yelena Belova, her old rival from the Red Room.

"Hello, Natasha," Yelena said. "I was hoping we would meet again." Something was off about the way that she stood there, staring with a look of pure intensity. The blood dripping down Yelena's face didn't even seem to bother her.

"Sorry, but I can't say the same," Natasha replied. She continued to study Yelena's demeanor. Her rival had always been bitter and aggressive, but she had never shown this level of focus before. Yelena's behavior was so odd as to be unnatural. _Oh no_, Natasha thought, as she realized what had happened.

"Yah!" Yelena yelled. She charged forth and opened with a flying kick.

_She's been drugged_, Natasha thought as she dodged the attack. _Just like I was_. Yelena spun around and came at her again. Natasha blocked Yelena's punch with her right, before she used her left elbow to stop a roundhouse kick. She then threw a right hook that found its mark before Yelena could regain her footing.

The blow spun Yelena around and sent her several steps away. Natasha was grateful for the reprieve. As her opponent snapped back in her direction, she found her hand drifting over to massage her left shoulder. _Way to send a message_, she thought. But there was no hiding the fact that she was hurt. Even if she had "won" that exchange, her body had come out the worse for it.

"The last week has been great," Yelena said. "I'm Uncle Ivan's favorite now."

"He told you that?" Natasha asked. Emotions swirled through her head. She pitied Yelena's ignorance, but a small part of her also felt hurt by those words. _Don't be stupid_, she thought as she suppressed her lingering feelings for Ivan. Her feelings were wrong. She had to get over them, before they betrayed her again. "Stop this, Yelena! Don't you see he's using you?"

"Die, traitor!" Yelena sprung forward again in a flurry of punches and kicks.

_Can't keep up with this_, Natasha thought as she defended herself once more. In her current state, it was impossible to match Yelena's energy. Knowing that, she got close and grabbed her opponent as soon as the opportunity arose. But though she had a better chance in the clinch, she had simply traded one bad situation for another. With her messed up arm, she wasn't able to compete with Yelena's strength either.

Yelena screamed like a beast as she powered out of Natasha's grip. Seizing Natasha by her left arm, she turned and threw her to the ground.

Natasha resisted the urge to cry out in pain. Her arm felt like it had been broken, even if it hadn't. Yet. Yelena pulled her arm straight and placed both legs across Natasha's chest, before falling back into an armbar.

_Get up_, Natasha thought. She couldn't afford to panic. It would be all over for her, if Yelena locked that move in. Natasha bent her legs to plant both feet flat on the ground. Pushing up with all of her strength, she managed to backflip out of Yelena's hold.

"Stay back!" Natasha yelled as she drew her empty Glock. She didn't have the bullets to follow through on her threat, but she also knew more than most that lying had its advantages.

"Drop that or he's dead," a man called out.

_Oh no_, Natasha thought as she turned and saw him arriving with eight others. Clint was at the front of the group. His arms were bound, and he had clearly been beaten. The squad leader pushed him to his knees, before pressing a rifle against the back of his head.

"Stay out of this," Yelena said. "She's mine."

"This fight is over," the squad leader said. He turned back to Natasha. "Drop it."

"Don't do it, Natasha!" Clint yelled. "Get out of here! Run!"

"Shut up!" the squad leader yelled. He pulled his rifle back and smashed its butt down on Clint's head, knocking him out cold. "Stupid American," he said with a chuckle. He then resumed his death threat by lowering the business end of his rifle again.

The sight of a rifle barrel pressing down into Clint's back sent chills down Natasha's spine.

"It's your choice," the squad leader said.

_**To be continued in Chapter 11: Homecoming**_


	11. Homecoming

**Chapter 11**

**Homecoming**

_August 4, 2004_

"Ugh." Clint cracked his eyes open, seeing nothing but a blurry blackness above him. The back of his head was sore, and the cold metal pressing against it didn't make things any better. Clint tried to rub his wound, but his hands were cuffed behind him. _Oh crap_, he thought. He snapped up as he remembered what had happened. "Natasha! No!"

"Stay in your seat," a man said. With one strong hand, he pushed Clint back down onto the metal bench that he had been sitting in. In his other hand, Clint saw an assault rifle.

"I'm here, Clint," Natasha said.

Clint looked past the nearest Russian and saw Natasha seated across from him, with her hands also bound. The room suddenly shook and swung her out of his line of sight. They weren't in a room at all, but were instead inside the back of a truck. "Where are we?" he asked.

"The Czech Republic," Natasha said. "We crossed the border about an hour ago."

"How did they get us through?" Clint asked.

"Easy," Natasha said. "All you have to do is pay the right people in the right places."

Clint glanced over to the side as one of the Russians chuckled. He _really_ wanted to punch that guy. Instead, he looked down and sighed, before he turned back to Natasha. "Know where they're taking us?"

"We're going to the Red Room," Natasha said.

"The what?" Clint asked.

"It's my home," Natasha said. "Or the closest thing I have to one." She paused and looked sadly into his eyes for several moments. "Hey. Now that we know each other, I guess it's time you met the family."

"You should've left me," Clint said.

"I'm not running," Natasha replied. "Not anymore."

* * *

"Get up, traitor."

Natasha stayed in her seat, forcing the man to poke her in the arm with his rifle. Even though she was tired and it was well past midnight, she wasn't going to be nice and compliant for them. She got up, slowly. Surrounded by armed men, she and Clint walked out of the truck and into the courtyard outside of the Red Room academy.

"This is it," she said to Clint.

"Huh," he said as he looked over the tall concrete walls of the former factory. "Looks cozy."

"Move," one of their escorts said, as he gave Natasha hard shove in the back.

Natasha reacted with such a fierce glare that he leaned away for a second. Then she turned back around and walked.

Yelena and all of the surviving men from the assault were around them now. Natasha watched as her rival strutted at the front of the crowd. _She's loving this_, Natasha thought. She knew from firsthand experience how it felt to march back to Uncle Ivan, after successfully completing a mission.

It was such a different feeling than the one she now had. _Never again_, Natasha thought as she remembered herself jumping into Ivan's arms. _Never again..._

Ivan was standing there, already waiting for them as they entered the building. Natasha could see his eyes following Clint, and then her. They were the center of his attention, despite his attempts to show otherwise.

"Well done, Yelena," Ivan said as she walked up to him. He continued to stare forward even as Yelena embraced him and slid over to his side.

Natasha saw Yelena turn and give her a dirty look. It was so smug, so self-satisfied. _She has no idea_, Natasha thought.

"You've done a very good job," Ivan said as he turned to Yelena for the first time. "But it's late now. Go wash up and eat something. We still have plenty of work ahead."

Yelena nodded, before she slinked off of him and walked away.

Ivan stood silently until she was gone. "Welcome home, _my little Tsarina_." He waited again for a moment for his words to sink in, before he spoke again. "I was so worried when I heard that you had been caught. Do you know what it's like, to be a father worried sick about his daughter?"

"Do you?" Natasha asked.

Ivan lowered his eyebrows for a moment before he went on. "And if that wasn't bad enough, you were captured just as our plan was coming together. I couldn't risk SHIELD discovering our location. So I sent Yelena and the men to save you."

"You mean to silence me?" Natasha asked.

"Now, now. Let's not pretend that you didn't shoot back." He walked forward and motioned for two men to grab her and hold her in place. Then he took hold of her chin and forced her to look up at him. "Oh, Natasha," he said as he caressed her chin between his fingers. "How could that awful American mislead you like this? Surely, your one day with him doesn't outweigh the _years_ we've been together."

"Hey," Clint said. "I'm right here."

Ivan sneered as he turned and stared Clint down. "Yes, you are."

"Stop talking down to her," Clint said. "If you got something to say, then say it to me."

"Enough with your silly bravado," Ivan said, before he casually turned back to Natasha. He reached in and placed his hand on her head. "Did his little display impress you, my dear?"

"No, not really," she said. Her skin crawled as she felt his fingers running through her hair. Ivan was taking his time to enjoy every moment of this, just as Yelena had. It made her sick to think that she had once eagerly sought this man's approval. "But then again, neither does yours."

"Hmm," Ivan said, with a brief hint of disappointment on his face. A moment later, he smiled. "Do you know how I tracked you down?"

"Please, tell us," Natasha said, trying to sound as sarcastic as she could.

"It was your ring, my dear. There's a tracker inside. Not a very big one, but accurate to one-hundred meters." His eyes narrowed as his mouth widened into a grin. "I did say that with it, we would _never_ be apart."

Natasha felt her anger rising, but she did everything that she could not to show it. She didn't want to give Ivan the satisfaction of getting such a reaction out of her. The ring felt so _wrong_ on her finger now. She wanted to yank it off and throw it back in his face. But she also knew how useful her anger could be, if it were bottled up and drawn upon later.

"We know about the HYDRA bombs," Natasha said, trying to change the subject. Her challenge would lead to more of Ivan's intolerable gloating. But it could also lead to some useful information though. At the least, she had to keep things going. No one had ever completed a mission by sitting down and doing nothing.

"My plan is far greater than you can imagine," Ivan said.

* * *

"You got some nukes and a few cities you don't like," Clint said. "Trust me. You're not the first one I've met." He could see Ivan's irritation, every time he or Natasha challenged his superiority. Clint was more than willing to mess with his head though. He just wished that he had more of an actual plan. "Which ones, huh? New York? Washington?"

Ivan chuckled. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves here." He walked over to the man who was carrying Clint's bow and quiver. "You have a unique taste in weaponry, Agent Barton," he said as he took the bow and felt it in his hands. "Inefficient, but strangely effective. I will study this after I am done with you." Ivan handed the bow back to his henchman, before he turned and started to walk further into the building. "Now come along. I have something to show you."

_About time_, Clint thought. He felt someone prod him with a rifle barrel to force him forward. As he walked with Natasha through the lobby of the building, he noticed the big red Soviet flag mounted on the wall. "You guys realize it's 2004, right?" Clint asked.

"Shut your mouth," one of the men said.

The man carrying Clint's weapons had split off from the group. He walked ahead and climbed a flight of stairs onto the second floor. From there, he went down an exposed hallway that ran along the left wall of the lobby.

Clint shifted his eyes to see which room the man would enter. _Third door past the stairs_, he noted. Focusing himself, he continued to watch as the man pressed several buttons on the door's keypad lock. _Seven-seven-two-six-five-nine_. He repeated the numbers in his head several times to commit them to memory.

The group stopped in front of a large door at the end of the lobby, which Ivan opened. "Come see what Uncle Ivan's been working on," he said. Ivan entered and stood by the doorway, smiling as everyone walked in after him.

They had entered a busy workshop. Its ceiling was high, with exposed beams and rows of fans and hanging lights. The rattling and humming of machinery filled the room. Groups of men were on the floor, working on four small, partially assembled aircraft.

_Drones_, Clint thought. He watched as two men loaded something into the belly of the nearest one. The object was a black cylinder with several rows of bright blue lights. Clearly, Ivan's men had gotten those old HYDRA relics back into working condition.

"It took me a week to get them ready," Ivan said. He barely contained his joy as he continued with his explanation. "The Red Skull deployed these bombs in suicide planes. I'm not so heartless that I would ask my men to do the same. These short-range drones should do the job just fine." He turned to Clint and smirked. "I must admit, you Americans had a good idea. Let a robot sacrifice itself for your cause."

"And what is your cause?" Natasha asked. "What did you have us all fighting for?"

"My cause is Mother Russia, my dear." Ivan turned and led the group on a slow walkthrough of the shop, so that everyone could get a closer look at his work. "She has fallen so far in the past fifteen years. For a while, I believed that all had been lost. But fate uncovered an abandoned cache of HYDRA weapons. And by doing so, it revived my hopes that Russia would rise again."

"This isn't gonna work," Natasha said. "You really think you can win a nuclear war?"

"I don't think you get it," Clint said. "If one nuke flies, they all do."

Ivan laughed out loud. "Do you _really_ think my plan is so simple as to attack the American homeland?" he asked. "A smart man never corners an enemy that he cannot defeat. If you want your opponent to give up, you leave him a way out."

"And what is that way out?" Natasha asked.

"The will, or _lack_ of will, in the American people," Ivan replied. "Nearly a thousand US troops have been lost in Iraq. Thousands more will follow. Americans are already growing tired of the war that they so eagerly went into."

"Enough to take several nukes and just walk away?" Clint asked.

"That, Agent Barton, is what we shall see," Ivan said. "America has tens of thousands of troops in Germany. Even more in Iraq. Three of my bombs can wipe them out just like that. American willpower will be shattered. Your people will _demand_ an end to foreign entanglements."

"They'll know you did it, you psycho," Clint said.

"No, they won't," Ivan replied. "Ahmad Hussaini's terrorist friends will gladly take the blame for me. Any remaining suspicion against Russia will evaporate when the fourth bomb explodes within her borders."

"You'd kill our own people?" Natasha asked.

Clint could see the distress on her face, which matched what he himself felt. Ivan had just revealed another level of crazy.

"My loyalty is to Mother Russia," Ivan said. "If she must suffer injury in order to learn the error of her ways, then I will gladly lend my fist."

"Wow," Clint said. "You have no idea how bad that came out."

"Where?" Natasha asked.

"An expendable city near the breakaway region of Chechnya," Ivan said. "Don't worry, my darling. Its loss will only ignite the fire in our people's hearts." His eyes widened, and he grew more animated as he went on. "They will demand an end to the weakness of our nation's leaders. As I speak, my allies in the government and the military are preparing a coup. Soon, Russia will once again stand proudly at the forefront of nations. The world will have no choice but to recognize her rightful place at the top!"

* * *

Natasha stared at Ivan as he ended his rant with a grin. She had at least gotten some insight into his mental state.

Ivan stood up straight and puffed out his chest. "You marvel at my ambition. At the boldness of my plan. Yes, I can see it in your eyes." He reached in to caress her face again. "Do you regret turning your back on me? I wonder if you'll reconsider your mistakes, and return to my loving embrace..." He pulled her in for a kiss on the cheek.

Instead of accepting his kiss, Natasha turned away before she swung her head back into his face.

"Ah!" Ivan yelled as he reeled from her headbutt. He bent over and raised both hands to his nose. When he lowered them again, they were both covered in blood. "You DARE strike me!" he screamed. Stepping forward again, he gave Natasha a stiff backhand across the face.

"Hey!" Clint yelled.

The blow had come so fast that Natasha hadn't even felt it. Her legs just gave out as her head swung toward the floor. She would've fallen if two of the men weren't there to catch her. Hanging from their arms, she tried for several seconds to regain her balance.

"Are you okay?" Clint asked.

She squinted and breathed hard as she tried to recover. "Go ahead, do your worst," she said as she looked up into Ivan's eyes. "Show me what a strong, angry man you are...You were always good at that."

"You're such a _child_," Ivan said. "You stupid girl. I let you out of my sight for a week, and you nearly cost me everything...How, _how_ can you pick him over me? I'm the one in charge. I'm the real man here. Not him."

"You're pathetic," Natasha said. "You ask how I can change sides. How I can pick someone who isn't strong and ruthless like you are. But that's not what I want. Given the choice, I'd pick regret, and kindness and mercy. Every time...from now until the end."

Ivan closed his mouth as he trembled with rage. "You won't be so rebellious after a few therapy sessions," he said. "I'll _make_ you love me again."

"No, you won't," Natasha said. "I'd rather die."

"I see that now," Ivan said. His hand shot forward and seized her left shoulder.

"Aaaah!" Natasha cried. She heard Ivan giggling as she fell to her knees. He wasn't just using his strength. Ivan was actually pressing his fingers into her stitches.

"Stop that!" Clint yelled. "Back off already!"

"Very well," Ivan said. He turned around and buried his fist into Clint's stomach, before he took him down with a punch to the face. Ivan stood up straight again, now that he had the two of them on their knees. "Since you're both so attached, you will die in each other's company. But first I will keep you alive, so that you can witness my moment of triumph."

* * *

"Let me see that," Clint said. He pulled at Natasha's jacket, trying to get a look at her injured shoulder.

"No," Natasha said as she shook him off. "It's okay."

Clint sighed as he turned and looked around again. Though their restraints had been removed, he and Natasha had been confined to a small holding cell. There was nothing in there but the bed that they both sat on.

He couldn't even get comfortable, not with an armed guard sitting in the room just outside the bars. That guard was at least more bored than creepy, content to sit at his desk and stare at the ceiling rather than watch them the entire time. That was Clint's one consolation. The silence was killing him, and it made it harder for him to take his mind off of Ivan's impending victory.

"Was Ivan always like this to you?" he asked.

"Not always," Natasha replied. "But this was always there, just below the surface. I see that now."

"I mean, I read your file and everything, but seeing this up close, for myself...I still can't believe you lived with this."

"I deluded myself into loving him," Natasha said. "Even without his 'treatments,' I made excuses and forgave him so many times. I don't think I even know what it means to love."

"I'm sorry," Clint said. He reached in again and touched her arm, hoping to console her.

"Stop it," Natasha said. "None of this matters if we can't..." She suddenly paused as her eyes lit up. "...get out of here."

"Huh?" Clint asked.

"Grab my arm," Natasha whispered.

"Wait, what?"

"Just do it."

Clint did as she asked. Instead of gently shaking him off this time, she yanked her arm back and struck him in the chest. "Stop it!" Natasha yelled.

_Great,_ Clint thought as Natasha grabbed him and pushed him against the wall. "What's wrong with you?!" he asked as he struggled to free himself from her. "Catch some of Uncle Ivan's crazy?"

Natasha leaned in and whispered in his ear again. "Hit me." She started with a few punches of her own, which landed on his side. Then she leaned away and yelled. "Come on! That all you got!"

Clint forced her up and swung a few times, half in compliance and half in confused fear that they really were fighting. Natasha released a wild scream as she elbowed him in the face, before she powered forward and backed him up against the bars.

"Hey!" the guard yelled from behind. Clint heard the man get up and grab his rifle before he ran over to the bars. "Stop this right - Ugh!"

Natasha had reached out and grabbed him, before she had yanked his face into the bars. Clint squirmed, feeling sandwiched between two people and several rods of metal. He finally figured out the plan, just as Natasha punched the guard in the nose with her other hand.

"You can let go now," she said.

"_I'm_ the one who should be saying that," Clint said as he slid out. He turned and saw Natasha, still holding the unconscious guard with one hand on his collar. She reached down into his pocket, where she found his keys. "You mind giving me a heads up next time?" Clint asked.

"Didn't wanna risk him knowing," Natasha said as she unlocked the cell. After walking out, she went straight down to check the guard's other pockets.

"Fine, that makes sense," Clint said as he rubbed his jaw and got out as well. "But did you really have to hit me so hard?"

"Hey, I had to make it convincing," Natasha said. She picked up the guard's AK-74 and checked its ammo, before looking down its sights.

Clint sighed. "Ugh, whatever."

"Jeez, will you stop complaining already? Alexei and I did this all the time. He was always game."

"Now I know why he left you," Clint replied. He looked down as Natasha looked through some more of the guard's pockets. "This guy have a sidearm or anything?"

"Right here," Natasha said. She reached up and handed him a collapsed baton without even looking up.

"Aw, you've gotta be kidding me," Clint said. "You get an AK and I get stick?"

"Alright," Natasha said as she stood up with her new assault rifle in hand. "That's all he's got. Let's go."

"Ladies first," Clint said as he raised his arm toward the door.

"That's very polite of you," Natasha said.

"I'm only saying that because you have the gun," Clint replied.

They went out the door and into the halls of the second floor, which were well lit but narrow and bare. Natasha wielded her rifle like a pro, keeping her arms tucked in and the weapon's sights raised to her eye the entire time. As they approached each corner, she would sway the rifle around to check both sides before proceeding.

Finally, they reached the exposed hallway running along the left side of the lobby. "Wait," Clint said. "Over here." He ran ahead of Natasha and led her toward the storage room where Ivan's goon had put his bow and quiver.

"Alright," Clint said as he looked down at the door's keypad. _Seven-seven-two-six-five-nine_. It didn't work. "Crap," Clint said as he tried again. _Seven-seven-two-six-five-nine_. It still didn't open. At least he knew he hadn't pushed a wrong button the first time...

Natasha sighed in frustration. "Come on. Hurry up, Clint."

"I'm close, okay? Just give me a minute." _Seven-seven-two-nine-five-nine_. _No, that's not it either_. _Seven-seven-two-six-eight-nine_. "Damn it."

"Maybe you couldn't see as much as you thought you did," Natasha said. "It happens."

"I got this," Clint said as he looked down again. "Hmm." _Seven-seven-two-six-four-nine_. It worked. Clint laughed as he turned toward Natasha. "My codename's not 'Hawkeye' for no reason."

He stopped as he saw someone turn into the hall behind her. Reaching down into his pocket, he pulled out his baton. He didn't even have time to expand it, as he saw the man raising a handgun. Clint moved to throw the baton handle on pure reflex. "Duck!" he yelled. It was a useless formality uttered after the baton handle had already left his hand.

The blunt, heavy cylinder flew through the air and into the man's forehead. He fell flat on his back without getting off a single word or bullet.

"Nice one, Hawkeye," Natasha said. She turned back to him and smiled, before she motioned toward the unlocked storage room.

Clint went in and saw his gear lying in the corner. He had shot off a lot of arrows over the last couple of days, but his quiver's high capacity meant that he still had a dozen left. There were also a few guns in the room, though they didn't have any ammo to go with them. _No problem_, Clint thought as he slung his quiver around his body again. He was back in business.

The two of them returned to the hall and walked toward the man he had just knocked out. "I'll take the handgun," Clint said. "You can have the baton." The two of them bent down to take the weapons. "Hey, where is everyone?" Clint asked.

"They're in the warehouse," Natasha said as she looked out a far window. The warehouse was attached to the right side of the building. Its truck doors were open, and they could see that it was lit. "They must be loading those drones into trucks. There's not much time."

* * *

Natasha led the way as she and Clint went through the entrance to the warehouse. They came out on a catwalk running along the wall opposite of the warehouse's open truck doors. There were catwalks along each of the walls, except for the one where the trucks came in through. Located in the middle of each catwalk was a long flight of stairs leading down to the warehouse floor.

The warehouse floor was crowded, with several rows of racks half-filled with boxes and crates, all pointed toward the truck doors. The area immediately before the doors was reserved for people to park and load their vehicles. This area was currently filled as well. Four trucks were parked there. Two of them had already been loaded, while the other two stood by as forklifts delivered Ivan's boxed-up drones.

Ivan was there on the floor, directing the operation. Yelena was standing by his side, and the two of them were surrounded by fifteen men. About half of them were armed, with a variety of assault rifles and submachine guns.

"What's the plan?" Clint asked.

"Disable the trucks, stop them from being loaded, or shoot their drivers," she said. "And oh yeah, try not to get killed."

"Sounds good to me," Clint said. He nocked an arrow and launched it down at the crowd. It exploded on the floor and sent multiple men into the air. Natasha saw Ivan stumble and fall, though he didn't seem to be injured.

"Please don't use that on the drones," she said as she fired on one of the forklift drivers. The man fell forward and lied motionless against his steering wheel. His foot must have planted down hard on the accelerator. The forklift kept going, plowing through several men on its way into a pile of crates.

"Yeah, I know!" Clint said as he launched three more arrows in quick succession. "Besides, I think that was my last one!"

Natasha saw the other forklift driver fall from the side of his vehicle with an arrow in his back. _Good, that's two_, she thought.

That's when Ivan's men began to return fire. "Move!" Clint yelled.

Natasha jumped to the side as bullets riddled the wall where they had just been standing. She rolled to her feet and lined up her sights again. The AK rattled in her hand through three quick bursts, and two of the men threw their arms up before they both fell dead on the floor. Natasha knew that they had just cost her precious ammo that would've been better used on stopping the trucks.

She was already down to half a magazine, but she had no choice but to shoot in defense. As she engaged another group of men, she saw someone running behind them toward one of the vehicles. "Shoot the driver!" she yelled at Clint. "Third truck! Now!"

"You really do sound like Hill," he said as he released another arrow.

"Don't know who the hell that is!" Natasha replied. She saw three more men taking aim at them. Turning around, she grabbed Clint's arm and pulled him away from nocking another arrow. Bullets tracked their movement as they turned a corner and ran along the right wall.

Natasha reengaged the men, using up the last of her ammo to take them out as Clint turned and fired toward the loaded fourth truck. His arrow planted itself into the front of the vehicle, a split second before the truck's hood blew open and released some smoke.

"Breaching arrow," Clint said. "The engine's dead."

"Good, because I'm out," Natasha said. They had taken out most of the armed men, but others were scrambling to retrieve their weapons and continue the fight.

"Running low myself," Clint said as he let fly once again. "Think I'm down to a grappling hook and a few basics."

Across the warehouse, Natasha saw Yelena and one of the men get inside of the first truck. "First truck!" she shouted.

"Don't have a clear shot at the driver's seat!" Clint replied. He clicked a few buttons on his bow handle and drew another arrow. "Hold on! I have an idea!"

Natasha waited as Clint aimed up and fired his grappling arrow into the ceiling. He checked the attached cable with a single tug, before he climbed onto the railing of the catwalk.

"Grab on!"

There wasn't any time for questions, so trusting him was her only choice. _Oh God, we're actually doing this_, Natasha thought as she dropped her empty rifle and wrapped her arms around him. Clint kicked off from the railing and sent them plunging down. The two of them swung toward the warehouse floor, then away from it, all while bullets streaked by around them.

Yelena's truck was now below and not too far away. The cable wasn't long enough to reach it, but Natasha knew that momentum could take her the rest of the way. She let go of Clint and flew down toward the truck, landing hard on top of its trailer just as it began to move.

Natasha rolled face down and clutched the vehicle to keep from falling off. Looking back, she saw Clint come to a landing on the warehouse floor.

"Stop the truck!" he shouted. He drew his pistol and began to blast away as multiple men converged upon him. "Don't worry, I got this!"

She couldn't help but worry as she turned toward the front of the truck. Looking out ahead, she saw that the main gate at the walls had already been opened to let Yelena through.

Natasha whipped out her baton as she crawled forward toward the truck's tractor. The vehicle suddenly swerved and loosened her grip. "Whoa!" she yelled as she slipped off the side. By sheer luck, her feet had landed on the footrest by the passenger side door. However, her mistake had also alerted the enemy to her presence.

"What the hell?" the passenger said as he leaned out to look at her. He reached out further with a pistol in his left hand.

Swinging her baton into his arm, Natasha quickly disarmed him. She swung again and struck him dead before he could even react. His body slumped, with half of hanging out the window. Natasha pulled it all the way out, before she opened the door and jumped inside the truck.

"You again!" Yelena yelled. The surprise caused her to jerk the steering wheel to the left. The motion threw Natasha into her foe headfirst.

"Ugh!" Natasha said as she took Yelena's right elbow in the neck. She struggled to regain her footing, as well as to acquire enough separation to fight with.

"Damn you!" Yelena screamed, as she hit Natasha with another elbow strike.

The sharp blow hit Natasha in the temple this time. _It's no use_, she thought. She wasn't going to beat Yelena, not like this. There was only one chance...Blindly reaching out, she grabbed the steering wheel and pulled. The tires screeched, before everything turned sideways and her ears were filled with the sounds of breaking glass and metal scraping against pavement.

It was a while before she finally crawled through the hole where the truck's windshield had been. The vehicle had flipped over and rolled several times, before it had settled on its side near the security wall.

Natasha realized that she didn't even know how long she had been out, though the vague thought that it had been two minutes lingered in her head.

_This is ridiculous_, she thought. Arguably, she still should have been recovering in bed. She rose to her feet and tried to walk, only to fall down again after several steps. _Think I need some more time_. She felt like crap, and the only thing that made it any better was the fact that she had stopped Yelena from escaping with the bomb.

A hand suddenly grabbed her from behind. _Not again_, Natasha thought as she felt herself being pulled up and swung into the truck's overturned trailer. She bounced off of the metal and spun around, staggering straight back into Yelena's arms.

"You thought you were the best," Yelena said as she punched Natasha in the stomach. She followed up with a left hook that sent Natasha to the ground. "You were always showing off." Yelena ran in and kicked Natasha before she could fully get up again. "Always trying to hold me back!"

Natasha tightened her fists as she lied on the ground. Yelena wasn't going to take her down without a fight. She kicked out as Yelena approached again, scoring a hit on her rival's midsection. Natasha snapped back up to press her attack. She missed with the wild, right-handed punch that she threw as she charged in, but she flowed into a spinning backfist that struck Yelena in the face.

Once again though, her body betrayed her. Natasha felt herself slowing down again, after that brief burst of energy. Yelena came back at her with a flying kick, and this time she wasn't ready for it. Natasha took the full force of that kick in her stomach. She felt the air being forced out of her as she hit the pavement again.

"Look at you," Yelena said. "All slow and broken down. I'm actually disappointed, Natasha. This wasn't much of a final duel." She leaped and pulled herself on top of the trailer. "I guess I'll have to console myself with the fact that I am standing over you like this, the last thing that you will ever see."

Before Yelena could finish her, the trailer exploded. Yelena flew back and slammed against the nearby brick wall, before she flopped onto the ground facedown. She didn't get up from that.

"You know how I ran out of explosives?" Clint asked as he arrived. "Turns out I still had one left."

"Glad to see you're not dead," Natasha said.

"Yeah, same," Clint replied. He took her hand and helped her to her feet.

"What happened to all the people in the warehouse?" Natasha asked.

"Oh, them? They're dead."

"Even Ivan?"

Clint put his hand on his head and sighed. "Everyone except for him. Don't know where he went. The guy just disappeared on me." He smiled as he put his hand on Natasha's good shoulder. "Hey, the important thing is that we stopped all those bombs."

The Red Room suddenly erupted in a series of explosions that began in the middle and expanded in both sides. Natasha watched as her home quickly became engulfed in flames that sent smoke billowing up into the sky.

"Not every bomb," she said.

"Wait, what's going on?" Clint asked.

"Ivan's still here," Natasha said. She narrowed her eyes as she felt renewed energy and purpose coursing through her body. "He had the whole place rigged for self-destruct, just in case. He's the only one who can do it. And I know where the trigger is."

"So what?" Clint asked

"Not everyone was in on Ivan's sick little scheme," Natasha said. "There were others in there. Girls…Ivan's killed them all to cover his escape. To erase all evidence of his crimes. I'm gonna make him pay."

"Don't go, Natasha."

"I have to. This ends tonight." Filled with rage, she took off and sprinted toward the inferno.

"Wait! Don't go!"

_**The end is near! Come back for the conclusion in Chapter 12: The Tie That Binds **_


	12. The Tie That Binds

**Chapter 12**

**The Tie That Binds**

_August 4, 2004_

Clint gathered himself and chased after Natasha. It was hard to keep up with a bow in his hands. "Hey, wait up Tasha!" She stopped and turned around, to his relief. "At least take this gun." He handed over the CZ 75 pistol that he had been using, along with a fresh magazine that he had picked off a body in the warehouse.

"Thanks." Natasha loaded the gun and racked its slide, before she turned right back to the Red Room.

_This is nuts_, Clint thought. He nocked one of his three remaining arrows as he ran past the boxed up drone that had spilled out of Yelena's truck. The big building they were headed toward was ablaze, lighting up the dark early morning sky. _Good thing the warehouse didn't blow_, Clint thought. If the HYDRA bombs had gone off as well, no one in the surrounding city would've survived.

As they pressed on, Clint saw more than a dozen people flee from the building. Either the Russians didn't notice them, or they didn't care. They had enough sense to get the hell out of there while they still could.

"Still sure about this?" Clint asked as they went through the main door. Thick smoke was drifting into the lobby from the second floor. The ceiling was on fire, and the flames had already begun to creep down the walls around them. The big Soviet flag burned and fell to the floor.

"He's on the second floor," Natasha simply said.

The two of them ran up the stairs. Clint was sweating already, and he didn't know whether it was because he was hot or nervous. There was so much smoke that he found it hard to breath, let alone see. He almost tripped several times, as they ran past several bodies lying in the halls.

Natasha kept going like a woman possessed. Clint _knew_ the fire scared her, but she wasn't showing it. She reached an intersection, where she swung to check left, then right. There, she paused for the first time since they had reentered the building.

Coming down the hallway were three young girls who looked like they were between twelve and fourteen years of age. The girls stopped in their tracks when they saw Natasha's gun. After their initial shock, they slowly assumed awkward fighting stances. Clint could see the terror in their eyes.

"Don't even think about it," Natasha said. "Leave. _Now_."

The girls lowered their hands and ran by without daring to give her another look. Clint exhaled in relief.

* * *

"This is it," Natasha said as she led Clint toward the door to her own two-story apartment. She felt the door handle to check if it was hot. It wasn't. "The fire's not inside yet. Just like Ivan intended."

"If he's even still inside," Clint said.

"He will be," Natasha replied. She paused for a second to gather her thoughts. "We're gonna enter through the living room. You swing left past the kitchen and clear the first floor. I'll go upstairs into Ivan's room. Got that?"

Clint nodded. "Let's get this done."

Natasha kicked down the door and ran in. The apartment was dark, with light provided by just one dim lamp in the living room. She held her pistol up by her face as she ran past the small dining area and up the stairs to the second floor. She could hear Clint behind her, turning to clear the room where she had slept for years.

Besides Ivan's room, there was only a small bathroom on the second floor. It took Natasha only seconds to clear that one. As she left the bathroom, Natasha aimed her gun at the door to Ivan's place. Nervousness came to her as she closed in. _Stop it_, she thought to herself. _Now is not the time._ She noticed that the door wasn't fully closed. Steeling herself, she barreled into the room.

She swung in both directions, half expecting to see Ivan's arms swinging around her. _Nothing_, she thought, half relieved and half disappointed. Natasha reached up and turned on the lights. He really wasn't there. She did see the file drawers that had been pulled out, as well as the safe that had been left with its door wide open. _Am I too late?_

Several loud banging sounds suddenly came from downstairs, right before Clint howled with such pain that it shook her as well. _No_, Natasha thought. She turned around and dashed for the stairs.

Natasha was halfway down when she saw Clint burst through the door of her own bedroom. He flew with such force that he soared past the kitchen and into the living room, stopping only when he slammed into the wall on the opposite side of the apartment. Clint landed on the hardwood floor with a sickening thud.

"Clint!" Natasha heard her voice crack as she called his name. She had to find out if he was still alive.

Laughter came from her bedroom before she could move again. Natasha turned and saw Ivan walking out with Clint's bow in his hands. Ivan had taken off his jacket, leaving on only a white sleeveless undershirt. The tank top was tight against his chiseled, bulging muscles. But something was different this time. Ivan looked far bigger than his normally impressive physique. His muscles were so big they were grotesque. The damn things were _growing_ before her eyes.

A big syringe rattled from his left bicep as he made his way past the kitchen toward the foot of the stairs. It finally loosened and fell as his muscles expanded to an almost surreal size. Ivan grinned as he looked up at Natasha. He raised Clint's bow and snapped it apart with ease.

"What did you do to yourself?" Natasha asked.

"The drug I just took was Dr. Sergeyev's final creation. Derived from the Americans' own Super Soldier Serum." Ivan's mouth opened wide as he threw his head back and laughed. "The timid fool said it was dangerous! Said I'd need proper care and supervision! Nonsense, I say!"

Natasha's mouth hung open as she watched him in horror. A minute ago, she had been set on killing him. Now she frightfully stood in his presence, while her friend lied motionless across the room. _Please be okay, Clint_.

Ivan sneered as he noticed her glancing off to the side. "Worried about your little boyfriend? I still don't get what you even see in him. At least he's not screaming like a girl now."

"You monster!" Natasha raised her pistol and fired off several rounds. Ivan sidestepped her bullets and hurled a dining room chair in return. "Ugh!" she yelled as the heavy wooden chair splintered against her body. It had come so frighteningly fast. She lost her balance and fell, feeling the hard edges of the staircase as she tumbled all the way down.

_Stay focused_, she thought in an attempt to fend off panic. She reached around, trying in vain to find her gun. Ivan's hands were on her before she could even get back up.

"Stupid girl," he said as he lifted her by her jacket collar. He picked her up off the floor and slammed her against the nearby wall. "The serum could've been yours," he said as they stared face to face. "Now you get nothing!" Turning around, he threw her into the kitchen.

Natasha landed on the counter and rolled off onto the floor. Pots and utensils clanged off around her as she lied there. Pushing her face up from the floor, she looked around for a weapon. Her eyes zeroed in on the large kitchen knife in front of her.

"Come now. I've trained you better than that!"

She grabbed the knife and threw it as she heard him coming into the kitchen. Ivan stopped and dodged the blade, just as she had intended. She snapped up and went for a front kick to his lower body. Ivan bent down to block the attack, but she followed up with two quick punches that sent him backpedaling into the living room.

Keeping the pressure on was her only chance. Natasha charged forward and leaped into the air for her signature head scissors takedown. With her legs wrapped around Ivan's neck, she swung her body like a pendulum to twist him to the floor. It didn't work.

_What the hell?_ She found herself hanging upside down with her legs caught in Ivan's iron grip. "Whoa!" Natasha cried as he bent back to swing her upright. He snapped her right back down a moment later. Natasha blacked out for a second as her back and head bounced on the floor.

Feeling groggy, she rolled and tried to get back up. Strangely, she didn't feel much pain. She knew that wasn't a good thing. Her hand slipped on the floor, and she fell. It was then that she saw the fire making its way along the living room wall. _Get up, Natasha_, she thought. _Get up!_ Her body wouldn't cooperate. Behind her, Ivan cracked his knuckles.

"I'm coming!" Clint suddenly yelled.

Natasha heard him running across the floor to tackle Ivan. The two men struggled and banged against the walls behind her. _He's alive!_ The thought gave her the energy to get back up. Natasha rose to her feet and turned around, but she saw that Clint's comeback had been short-lived.

"You don't know when to quit," Ivan said as he strangled Clint with his left hand. He deliberately closed his right hand into a fist, before punching Clint in the face. Clint's head rocked back from the blow, and he went limp in Ivan's hand. "I wonder how much more you can take," Ivan said as he raised his fist again.

"No!" Natasha cried. She ran forward and jumped onto his back. Using her legs to hold herself in place, she went for a rear naked choke. Natasha pulled as hard as she could to force Ivan to let go. She heard Clint drop to the floor, but that also meant that she once again had Ivan's undivided attention.

Ivan backed her up into a wall. Crushed between the wall and his massive frame, she was forced to let go. Ivan stepped away, and Natasha found herself sliding down to the floor. He turned around and kicked her hard in the stomach, almost lifting her up off the floor. Then he kicked her again when she tried to get up from that.

_Not like this_, she thought as she lied helplessly at his feet. Ivan dug his left hand into her hair and yanked her up. Unready to defend herself again, Natasha uselessly kicked her legs as he dragged her across the floor. Ivan twisted her around onto her knees and pushed her face near some flames on the wall. She tensed up, and to her shame, she whimpered.

"What's the matter?" Ivan asked. "Am I scaring you?"

She tried to pull her head back, only for Ivan to push her face right down in front of the flames again. Fire was everywhere. It was all she could see...

"Cry for me, Natasha. I want to see you cry!"

Fear swept over her, and the panic that she had been trying so hard to avoid finally came. Natasha's mouth fell open, and she found herself unable to talk or even breathe. _Fire, everywhere_. It was just like the fire that had consumed her childhood home.

Visions flashed through her mind, and she remembered that terrible day once again. This time though, she _remembered_. More clearly than she ever had before. The sights and sounds came surging out from the dark corner of her mind where they had been bottled up for decades. Natasha saw her father, crawling on the floor before a masked man shot him in the back. She saw her mother, beaten and lying against the wall as the flames encircled her.

The visions ceased as she heard Ivan's voice again. "You're nothing! All you are is what I've trained you to be. But even my expert training couldn't overcome one simple fact. That after all these years, you are _still_ the frightened little girl I plucked from the fire."

_The little girl_. Natasha heard the crying from her dreams again. The same cries that had kept her awake at night. _Her_ crying. Yes, she remembered now. She was that little girl. The helpless child who had been heartlessly pulled away in Ivan's arms, as her mother reached for her through the fire...

She wasn't going to be that scared little girl anymore. Fear, not Ivan's strength, had allowed him to hold her face to the flames. But fear existed only in her mind. Natasha clenched her teeth, as her fear gave way to rage.

Ivan's hair grab was nasty, but it didn't provide any real body control. Natasha grabbed his left hand with hers, securing it to her head as she turned around and drove her right elbow into his groin. He bent over and screamed. _Like a girl_, she thought sarcastically.

She continued to hold his arm out to expose the nerve cluster in his armpit. Rising up, she punched him hard in that vital area. Ivan let go of her hair and stumbled away. He may have been pumped up on Super Soldier Serum, but human bodies had the same weak points no matter how strong they were.

Natasha sprung up and pressed her attack with two more punches to the face, before she pulled his head down for a knee strike that finally knocked him off his feet. She didn't let that slow her though. It may have been dirty to hit someone while he was down, but that was exactly how she had been taught to fight. Chasing after him, she prepared to deliver the finishing blow.

The chance was taken from her though, as Ivan smacked her away with a wild swing of his arm. "Ah!" Natasha yelled as she flew across the room. It was okay though. She was willing to live with such a random blow, because her strategy was working. Ivan was pissed off, but he had also been slowed down and disoriented. _Bring it on_, Natasha thought as she heard him charging in to tackle her.

She grabbed his arm and turned, using his own momentum against him. "Nice try," she said as he crashed headfirst into the wall. Ivan got right back up and came at her again, but Natasha ducked under his clumsy swings to get in close. There, she struck him several times, starting in his lower torso and ending with a jumping punch to the side of the head.

Ivan stayed on his feet, but he was clearly dazed. Natasha readied herself as he swayed back in her direction, before she gave him a vicious sidekick to the knee. Something snapped inside his leg, which buckled and gave way.

His face twisted in pain, and he groaned as he lied on his hands and knees. Soon enough though, his physical agony turned into fear. He looked up at Natasha, gasping with his eyes and mouth hanging wide open.

That was just the look that she had wanted to see. Ivan finally understood that all of his strength was meaningless to her. Natasha sneered, right before she gave him a roundhouse kick to the face.

Blood spewed from his nose and mouth as spun away. He landed several feet back, hitting the floor hard and at an awkward angle. Natasha watched as he crawled away in desperation, lumbering dangerously close to the flames that had stretched out across the floor. "Stay back!" Ivan shouted as he suddenly snatched something off the floor. It was the kitchen knife that she had thrown at him before.

Natasha moved calmly to retrieve a weapon of her own, even as Ivan pulled himself up and balanced himself on his one good leg. "Don't bring a knife to a gunfight, Ivan. You told me that yourself."

* * *

Clint smelled smoke, and he heard the fire sizzling around him as he regained consciousness. But he also heard Natasha and Ivan fighting, which was as good a situation as he could've asked for.

"It's over!" he heard Natasha yell.

Holding his throbbing head as he pushed himself up, Clint turned and saw her holding Ivan at gunpoint. Ivan stood across the room from her, with a knife in his own hand. "You heard her, Ivan," Clint said. "Stand down!"

Natasha glanced over at him for a second. "Clint...Thank God."

Ivan took that opportunity to limp several steps closer to her. "Put the gun down. We both know you're not going to shoot."

"You wanna bet?!" Natasha yelled. The look on her face intensified as she raised her other hand to steady her weapon.

"It doesn't have to end like this," Ivan said. Though his voice sounded soft, Clint could see him raise his knife as he came even closer.

"Hey!" Clint yelled. "Put the knife down!"

Ivan didn't even look at him. "Please, Natasha. I love you. Don't you love me?"

"Love..." Natasha trailed off as a single tear slid down her cheek. "Love is for children."

She suddenly pulled the trigger. Clint froze as he saw the blood spray from Ivan's forehead. The knife flew from Ivan's hand, and he bent back and fell to the floor. Clint could only watch and listen as Natasha emptied the rest of her bullets into Ivan's body.

The gunshots ceased, but Natasha continued to pull the trigger anyway. Her face was stone cold, and each click of her empty gun reinforced her hatred for the dead man whom Clint had long since looked away from.

Finally, she stopped and let go of the gun. It bounced, making a loud sound before it settled on the wooden floor. Natasha's eyes remained on Ivan though. Clint watched as she reached for the ring on her right hand and pulled it off. Her left arm dropped to her side, and she slowly opened her fingers so that the ring would fall out on its own.

The whole room was on fire now, and still she wouldn't look away. Clint composed himself and worked up the courage to approach her. "It's over, Tasha," he said he placed his hand on her arm. "Come on, let's go."

He took her hand and led her out the door. Clint held his breath as they raced through the flaming, smoke-filled halls. Seeing the building fall apart around them, he was amazed that they were still alive. They finally escaped through the main door, just as a chunk of ceiling crashed down behind them.

Clint opened his mouth and gasped, relishing the fresh morning air despite how cold it was. The sky was still dark, and the sun was just beginning to peek up over the horizon. "We made it," he said, smiling in relief as he turned to Natasha.

His smile faded as he saw her take several steps before she collapsed to the ground. The poor girl had taken a beating over the last couple of days, far worse than he himself had suffered. Natasha straightened herself out though, and she sat with her arms wrapped around her knees. She was hurting, in ways that stretched beyond the physical.

He finally realized the significance of what had just happened. Clint looked around and checked for any remaining hostiles. He didn't see any. With a sigh, he walked over and sat down beside her. "Are you okay?" he asked. It was such a stupid question, but he didn't know what else to say. Natasha didn't even respond to it. All she did was sit there in silence, staring off into the distance.

_God damn it_, Clint thought. Seeing her like that made his heart sink. He had wanted to help her. All he had wanted was to make a difference in her life. Ivan _had_ to die. But Clint hadn't envisioned Natasha gunning down the only father that she had ever known. Not in such a gruesome manner, at least. Perhaps he had been foolish to think that things would have turned out otherwise.

_Love is for children_, he remembered her say. Those words gave him chills. Something about them just bothered him, in a way that cut too close to home. He recalled his conversation with Coulson from more than a week ago. Some people long for what they never had. Natasha, on the other hand, had just decided to live without.

Clint reached over and wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her in and hugged her tight, even though she continued to sit there without moving on her own. _Why am I doing this?_ he thought. He didn't know whether he was trying to comfort her, or himself. Maybe he was trying to prove her wrong. He wasn't sure, but he pulled her in even closer.

They continued to sit like that, as the sun finally rose to light up the sky. Clint could hear sirens outside the walls, and helicopter blades in the distance. Soon, several black vans rolled in through the front gate. The air whipped around them, as a helicopter appeared and hovered above.

The aircraft landed nearby, and the vans parked in a semicircle around Clint and Natasha. SHIELD agents poured out from each of the vehicles with assault rifles in hand. Clint saw a pair of familiar faces in the crowd.

"This looked like your handiwork," Coulson said. He gave Natasha a nervous glance, before he turned back to Clint.

"This place is all over the news," Hill said. "Took everything we had to keep the cops and the media at bay."

Clint shrugged. "What am I supposed to do, huh?"

Coulson listened on his earphone before he spoke again. "The men found a dead guy and truck with some very interesting cargo on the way in. Please tell me the threat's been neutralized."

"As far as I can tell," Clint said. "You might wanna send some people to the warehouse though."

"You heard him," Coulson said as he turned to several agents on his right. The men quickly departed.

A thought suddenly occurred to Clint. "Hey Coulson, you said there was a dead guy on the way in. Did they mention a blonde girl as well?"

"Should they have?" Hill asked.

Clint just nodded. _She'll be back. _

Hill sighed. "They always come back," she said, practically reading his mind. "What about Ivan Petrovitch? Was he here?"

"He's dead," Clint replied.

Hill's face lit up, and she smiled for once. "Well done, Agent Barton."

"It wasn't me," Clint said as he turned to Natasha. "You guys will have to thank her for this."

"_Her?_" Hill asked, clearly taken aback by the statement. She quickly gathered herself and turned to Natasha. "Well thank you, Miss Romanoff. If you'd come with us, we'd _love_ to hear all about it." Hill motioned for several men, who came in and seized Natasha by her arms.

"Hey, what gives?!" Clint yelled. He jumped to his feet and tried to reach Natasha as they pulled her toward one of the vans. Several more agents moved in to hold him back.

"She's an enemy agent," Coulson said as he turned and looked Clint in the eye. "I'm sorry. We have to do this."

"No!" Clint yelled. "Let her go!"

"Clint," Natasha said. It was her first word to him since she had shot Ivan. She turned her head to look back at him, appearing much calmer than he was. "Don't."

The agents cuffed her before they shoved her into the back of the van.

* * *

_August 5, 2004_

Clint stepped off the ramp of the C-2 cargo plane and onto the deck of the Helicarrier. The seas were calm, and the sun was shining bright in the sky. The weather was perfect for the agents who had gathered on the deck to greet him. Good thing too, since Director Fury was one of them.

"Congratulations, Agent Barton," Fury said. "SHIELD, and the entire world are in your debt."

Clint paused, as he took a moment to think of an appropriate response. "I didn't do it for the credit, sir."

Fury smiled and laughed. "No, you didn't. But you deserve it anyway."

"Thank you, Director." Clint walked up and shook his hand. He didn't care for all of the attention, which was just making him uncomfortable. All he wanted was some answers. "I know there's a bunch of loose ends. If there's anything more I can do -"

"You've done more than enough for now," Fury said. "As we speak, the Russians are rounding up all of Ivan's friends. It's just a matter of time before they all face the music."

"What about Natasha?" Clint asked. He realized how personal that came across. "I mean the Black Widow."

"The Russians disavowed her," Fury said. "They don't want responsibility for _any_ of Ivan's people."

"So she's ours?" Clint asked.

"That's right. As of today, her life belongs to SHIELD. Speaking of which..." The two of them looked up as the C-2 carrying Natasha arrived on schedule.

Clint sighed as he turned back to Fury. "She's been through a lot, sir. Please...be gentle."

"I will be whatever I have to be, Agent Barton."

* * *

Natasha sat at the table inside the Helicarrier's interrogation room. The table and the three chairs around it were the only pieces of furniture in there. Everything in the room was painted dark gray, except for the one-way mirror that ran along the wall to her right.

The door swung open, and Director Fury barged in with Agent Coulson following close behind. "Hello, Miss Romanoff," Fury said. He crossed his arms and stared her down with his one good eye.

"Hello," Natasha said. She wanted to through the formalities as quickly as she could.

"Let's just cut to the chase," Fury said. "Nobody knows where you are right now. Nobody cares. Your ass is mine, and I want answers."

"What do you wanna know?" Natasha asked.

"Don't think I'm not on to you," Fury said. "You're a murderer. An agent killer. You saw the writing on the wall, so you switched sides to save your ass. Now your wiles may have worked on Agent Barton, but you are _not_ gonna get one over on me."

Natasha sighed. Fury was trying to intimidate her, but none of his theatrics could compare to what Ivan had done to her for real. "I assure you, I'm not trying to do anything here."

"Liar!" Fury screamed as he pounded the table with his fist.

"Sir..." Agent Coulson said in a soft tone. "Please, let me handle this."

Natasha waited patiently as Fury cast an angry glare at him, before stepping aside to let Coulson take over. It was "good cop, bad cop" routine, and she had seen it all before.

"Natasha," Coulson said. "Can I call you Natasha? Look, you have to realize that there are a lot of bad people out there who want to get their hands on you. Now we can help, but you need to cooperate with us."

"Sure," Natasha said. "Just drop the act already, okay?"

"_Excuse me?_" Fury said as he leaned in.

"It's not necessary," Natasha replied. "I'll talk. I'll tell you everything."

Coulson looked at Fury again and shrugged. "It's your call, boss."

"If she talks, then I'm willing to listen," Fury said. He turned and looked down at her again. "Can I ask why you're being so cooperative?"

"Because I have so much to make up for," Natasha said, as she looked him in the eye. "And nothing else in my life matters anymore."

"Very good," Fury said. "Coulson's told me all about Sergeyev's files. I know what they did to you. What they forced you to do. You've got your work cut out if you want to make up for all of that. But you'll get your chance."

"When do we start?" Natasha asked.

"Soon," Fury replied. "We'll ask you some questions today, and then we'll focus on fixing up that shoulder of yours. And don't you worry about those scars. We'll take care of them as well before your training starts."

"What?" Natasha asked. "You mean just like that?"

"You've got a very specific skill set," Fury said. "We'll need you working, and looking your best." He turned and motioned for Coulson to follow him out the door. "Have a nice day, Agent Romanoff."

* * *

_August 7, 2004_

Clint raised his sporting bow and lined its sights up on the foam target twenty-five yards away. He released his arrow and watched it soar across the hangar, right into the middle of his foam target. _Perfect five out of five_, he thought. It wasn't a challenge, nor had he even been rusty this time. But this was the only archery he was going to get while Personal Effects worked on replacing his duty bow.

Dr. Boothroyd had been very pleased with his "field testing" of the VP2DS, and he was already hard at work on several upgrades. A refined quiver was coming, along with a number of new trick arrows that Boothroyd had excitedly listed off. Non-lethal impact arrows, as well as thermite, electrical shock, EMP, and knockout gas arrows were all in the works. According to Boothroyd, Clint was in for an "early Christmas" that year.

He should have been happy, but he wasn't. The gadgets and toys didn't mean as much to him anymore. He missed Natasha already, after only two days without seeing her. Two days that could turn into a lifetime.

_You're an idiot_, Clint thought to himself. He trudged across the hangar to retrieve his arrows. Shooting was supposed to take his mind off of these stupid things, but it wasn't working. He knew that he shouldn't feel so attached to her. After all, they had been together for only about a day. But already, he felt as if he knew her. He had connected with her, far better than he had with all of the virtual strangers aboard the Helicarrier.

"Hey Barton!" Coulson shouted from behind. Clint turned around to face him as he arrived. "I've been meaning to thank you."

Clint cracked a smile. "For the job well done? Don't worry about it. I know."

"Well it was that, and not losing my Captain America figure."

"It was the least I could do after you spent two thousand bucks on it."

"I told you, I got it for cheap," Coulson said. "It's not the price. It's the rarity."

"Sure, Coulson," Clint said. He turned around to pluck his arrows from the foam cube.

"I don't know if they told you this, but I recommended you for a promotion. It was a long shot though. The Council doesn't like to promote mavericks."

"It's alright," Clint said. "Someone told me they just gave another promotion to Hill instead. I've been around long enough to know how these things work. Nothing surprises me anymore." He looked down and began to reload his quiver. "I just wanna know one thing, Coulson. What's gonna happen to Natasha?"

"Oh her? We're putting her through training. She's gonna work for SHIELD now."

Clint's jaw dropped. "No way. You serious about this?"

Coulson smiled at him. "Surprised yet?"

"Oh, wow," Clint said. "What made you guys decide to do this?"

"I don't know if you can tell from my Captain America devotion, but I believe heroes. And though he doesn't wear it on his sleeve, Director Fury does as well. We like to think that people have the potential to be better than they are. That they can decide what to do with their lives, despite their circumstances."

"That's pretty optimistic," Clint said.

"Hey, I recruited you, didn't I?"

* * *

_April 13, 2005_

"Oh, hi, Agent Romanoff. Have a seat right there."

"Hello." Natasha sat down across the desk from the young data entry technician. After surgery, recuperation, and months of training, she was finally about to become an official Agent of SHIELD.

"Look into the camera on your right and smile."

She only did the first thing that he had asked for. The ID card he was making was going to represent her for the coming years, and she didn't want it to lie about who she was. She'd have plenty of chances to lie and fake her smiles while working in the field.

"Okay, here you go," he said as he handed over her card. "You have your file here? I just need to get a few things straight before I let you go."

"Sure," Natasha said as she gave him her papers.

"Okay..." the technician said. He turned to his keyboard and began to type, looking back and forth between the papers and his monitor. "Place of birth, Volgograd, Russia...Citizenship, US...eye color, green...height, five-four...Alright, here's the fun part."

"What's that?" Natasha asked.

"You get to pick a codename. Anything you want."

"Anything?"

"Well, within certain broad parameters," he said. "Just don't pick anything _too_ crazy."

"Black Widow," she said without any further hesitation. She hated that nickname, but it was also an undeniable link to her past. Going forward, it would serve as a constant reminder of all the sins that she had to atone for.

"You _sure_ about that?"

"Absolutely."

* * *

_April 15, 2005_

Natasha walked out onto the Helicarrier with the other young new agents. They had arrived in style aboard the first operational squadron of Quinjets. Director Fury had seen to that himself. It was nice decision that symbolized the new start for everyone aboard the ship.

Looking around, Natasha saw hundreds of SHIELD agents assembled along the deck. They were to stand at attention while their new colleagues marched toward the elevators that would take them down into the decks below. Natasha had heard that these ceremonies were supposed to be proud, happy occasions. But as she looked at the agents' faces, she noticed that many of them were staring at her. They made little effort to hide their contempt.

She lowered her head as she felt their eyes drilling into her. The attention was suffocating, and it wasn't fair to all of the other new arrivals. Natasha knew that she was in for a rough time. Still, she had no choice but to press on.

* * *

Clint jogged along the corridor to the mess hall. If it hadn't been so crowded, he would've been running instead. Natasha was there, or so he had heard.

Several hours ago, he had lined up on deck to welcome her onto the ship. But Natasha had walked with her head down, passing right by without giving him so much as a single look. Maybe she hadn't noticed him. Or maybe, Clint feared, she had been ignoring him.

He grabbed a tray and a few pieces of food so that he'd have an excuse to sit down with her. Then he looked around. She wouldn't have been hard to find, even without her fiery red hair. Natasha sat alone, all the way across the cafeteria in an entire section of empty tables.

She was eating like she couldn't wait to get out of there. Clint moved quickly, almost afraid that she would finish before he could make it across the floor.

"Hey there," he said, smiling as he pulled out a chair across the table from her. "You mind? The cool kids won't let me sit with them either."

Natasha looked up at him, and he could see the momentary surprise on her face. But any emotion from her quickly receded. "Fine...just don't ask me a lot of questions, okay? This day has been terrible for me. I'd like to get through my first dinner here in peace." She lowered her head and dug into her food again.

Clint nodded, before he looked away so that she wouldn't see him staring at her the whole time. There was a large mirror mounted on the wall on the far side of the cafeteria in which he could see everyone's reflections. He and Natasha were easy to pick out, even though their reflections were so small that he could hardly make out their features.

From a distance, they weren't Hawkeye and the Black Widow. They were just a man and a woman. Two people. Alone, and together.

"Hey Clint?"

He shook, surprised that she was the one to break the silence. "What is it?"

"Thanks for seeing something more in me."

Clint watched as she reached over and placed her hand over his. It was a good start.

_**The End.**_

* * *

**Author's note: **If you made it all the way here, then thank you for reading! Please let me know what you thought about the story, my writing, and how I handled these characters. I'm open to any constructive comments, and I read and appreciate every review that I get.

Working on this story has been an interesting experience for me as a writer. The movie scene where Natasha faced off against Loki gave me an appreciation for her character, and I eventually began the process of researching her comic roots. I'll admit that I wasn't as taken by Clint's portrayal in the movie, but I also learned to appreciate him as I tried to figure out why he would defy his orders and spare Natasha's life.

I've tried to integrate a bunch of things from the comics, while changing some others in the Marvel Cinematic Universe tradition. I hope you've enjoyed my take on things.

If you like this story, then please share it with others!

And don't forget to come back in March 2013 when I begin my next big story, _**Avengers: Worlds Apart**_. When a decades-old conspiracy revives an ancient Asgardian threat, the team must pull together to save the Earth and all of the Nine Realms! Clint, Natasha, the rest of the Avengers and their friends will all be there!


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